Chapter 13 - THE THIN LINE
Four months passed.
The autumn leaves turned crimson and gold along the coastline of Kennebunkport, Maine.
A gentle breeze carried the crisp scent of the Atlantic ocean through the open French doors of an old saltbox house perched on the cliffs.
Vivienne stood in the nursery on the second floor, hanging wooden mobiles shaped like small sailboats above a white crib.
Her belly had grown round and full, pressing against the soft knit of her cream-colored sweater.
Footsteps echoed softly on the wooden stairs.
Lorenzo entered the room, holding two cups of chamomile tea.
He wore a simple flannel shirt and worn jeans.
The expensive Italian suits and concealed shoulder holsters were gone, replaced by the quiet dignity of a man who had put down his weapons.
A faint scar ran along his jawline, a permanent reminder of the fire in Boston Harbor, but his gray eyes were bright and clear.
He set the tea on the dresser and walked behind her.
His large, warm hands settled gently on either side of her swollen stomach.
The baby kicked immediately, a firm, distinct flutter beneath his palms.
Lorenzo let out a soft laugh, resting his chin on Vivienne’s shoulder.
“She’s restless today,” he whispered.
“She takes after her father,” Vivienne replied, leaning back against his chest.
Lorenzo closed his eyes, breathing in the scent of her hair—lavender and ocean salt.
“I still check the perimeter,” he admitted quietly. “Every night at two in the morning. Old habits.”
Vivienne turned in his arms, resting her hands against his chest.
She could feel his heartbeat: slow, steady, and alive.
“The marshals said Silvio’s trial ended yesterday,” she said.
“Life without parole at ADX Florence,” Lorenzo said, without a trace of anger or triumph in his voice. “He will never see the sun again.”
“And you?” she asked, tilting her head up. “Do you ever miss the power?”
Lorenzo looked around the simple, sunlit nursery.
He looked at the crib.
He looked into the warm, hazel eyes of the woman who had saved his soul from the wreckage of his empire.
“I had power for ten years, Vivienne,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “It was cold. It was lonely. It nearly killed the only thing that ever mattered to me.”
He leaned down and pressed a slow, tender kiss to her lips.
“This is the only empire I will ever defend.”
Suddenly, Vivienne gasped.
Her hands tightened on his forearms.
A sharp, breathless pressure gripped her lower abdomen.
A small splash of clear water hit the hardwood floor between her feet.
Lorenzo froze.
His eyes went wide with sudden, absolute panic.
“Viv?”
“Lorenzo...” she breathed, her face flushed with sudden warmth. “Get the bag.”
“The bag?” Lorenzo stammered, looking around the room as if the wooden walls were on fire. “The hospital bag! Right! Where is the bag?”
“By the front door,” she laughed through the contraction, wincing slightly. “Breathe, Lorenzo. You faced thirty armed men in a warehouse. You can handle a labor ward.”
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Lorenzo grabbed her coat, his hands trembling with an excitement far more terrifying than any gunfight he had ever survived.
“Call the doctor!” he yelled toward the stairs. “Leo! Get the truck!”
