Chapter 9 - The Settlement of the Ledger
The silence that returned to the Maine estate by 4:00 AM was absolute.
The storm had moved entirely out to sea, leaving behind a clear, brilliant sky filled with a million cold winter stars that reflected off the white expanse of the bluff. The three Moretti transport vessels were now nothing but dark, smoking hulls drifting against the outer reef, their crews neutralized by the Chicago detail before they ever reached the perimeter wall.
The heavy steel door of the cellar vault swung open with a mechanical groan.
Dominic stood in the frame, his face pale, his black sweater torn at the left shoulder where a grazing bullet had left a thin, neat line of crimson against his skin. His gray eyes were bloodshot, his hands covered in dark soot, but as his gaze landed on me sitting on the metal chair, the lethal frost on his face melted instantly into an overwhelming, exhausting relief.
"It’s over, Megan," he whispered, his voice barely a rasp.
I stood up, my legs trembling so violently that Dr. Bianchi had to catch my elbow before I could take a step. I broke away from the old man’s grip and threw myself into Dominic’s arms, my face burying into the frozen wool of his coat, my sobs breaking through the silence of the cellar.
"You're bleeding," I cried, my fingers touching the dark stain on his shoulder.
"It's nothing," he murmured, his arms wrapping around my waist, lifting me off the concrete floor until my feet were dangling, his head burying into the crook of my neck. "Leo Moretti is gone. The New York captains have already contacted Leo’s father to inform him that if a single car from Manhattan crosses the Jersey turnpike toward the Midwest by noon, the federal marshals will receive the full financial ledgers for their port authorities."
He lowered me back down, his wide hands immediately moving to rest on my stomach, his palms catching the steady, rhythmic movement from within. He let out a long, ragged laugh that sounded like music after the thunder of the guns.
"She’s still kicking," he breathed, his gray eyes shining with a rare, brilliant warmth that I hadn't seen since our first week in Chicago.
"She wants to know why her father is making so much noise at four in the morning," I smiled through my tears, my hands closing over his knuckles.
"We’re going home, Megan," Dominic said, his voice dropping into that quiet, absolute register of safety. "Not to the shipping office. Not to the townhouses in Gold Coast. We’re going to the farm in Michigan—the one near the lake where the fences are made of wood and the only thing that moves after midnight is the deer."
He turned back toward the cellar stairs, his arm wrapped securely around my waist to support my weight as Dr. Bianchi followed behind with his leather bag.
"Leo," Dominic called out as we reached the first-floor hallway, where the cleaning crews were already replacing the broken plaster and scrubbing the stone steps.
May you like
"Yes, Boss?" Leo answered, looking up from his tablet.
"Call the Northwestern Memorial clinic in Chicago," Dominic ordered, not looking back as he led me toward the waiting Suburban under the portico. "Tell them to schedule a prenatal appointment for Tuesday morning. Under the name Megan Russo."
