Chapter 9 - The Ledger of the Free
The private library on the thirty-third floor of the State Street penthouse was bathed in the pale, violet twilight of a late spring dawn.
The French casement windows were thrown wide open to the park, letting in the sweet, cool breeze that carried the scent of blooming lilacs, wet earth, and the distant, melodic whistling of the morning train leaving Union Station.
Sitting at the large mahogany desk, wearing a comfortable cashmere dressing gown over her linen nightshirt, was Clarissa Robinson Moretti.
I was six months pregnant.
My belly was a high, magnificent, proud curve beneath the ivory silk—a testament to six months of quiet mornings, fresh milk from our farm in Wisconsin, and the unassailable peace of a home where every door was unlocked.
On the desk in front of me sat an open wooden box lined with blue velvet.
Inside the box lay three objects:
My father’s twenty-two-ounce brass mechanic’s hammer, its hickory handle dark with thirty years of honest grease.
The titanium business card that Mason had placed on the table at The Violet Tower eighteen months ago.
And the certified decree of the United States District Court for the Northern District of Illinois in United States v. Arthur Vance et al.:
FINAL LIQUIDATION ORDER: ALL FORFEITED PROPERTIES TRANSFERRED TO THE ROBINSON-MORETTI WORKERS' ENDOWMENT.
STATUS: CASE CLOSED. DISCHARGED WITH PREJUDICE.
Footsteps clicked rhythmically against the Persian rug behind my chair.
Mason walked into the library.
He had removed his suit jacket, wearing an open-collared white linen shirt, dark trousers, and no shoes, his dark hair disheveled from sleep, carrying a small porcelain tray holding two cups of dark roast coffee and a warm plate of fresh blueberry scones that he had baked himself in the kitchen downstairs.
He set the tray onto the desk, pulled out the matching leather armchair, and sat down beside me, leaning his forearms on the wood.
He did not look at the court decree.
He reached out his large, warm hand, his fingers sliding beneath the silk of my dressing gown, resting flat and reverent against the firm, living curve of my abdomen.
The baby moved.
A sharp, distinct kick against the lower right quadrant of my belly—strong enough that Mason’s hand lifted half an inch.
Mason let out a low, breathless laugh that came from the deepest chamber of his chest—a sound of pure, unadulterated, and unburdened joy that transformed his scarred face into a vision of absolute peace.
"He has his grandfather’s kick, Clarissa," Mason whispered, leaning his forehead against my shoulder.
"She, Mason," I smiled, burying my fingers in his dark, thick hair. "Dr. Ruiz confirmed it yesterday afternoon. We are having a daughter."
Mason went completely still.
He lifted his head, his gray eyes shining with an emotion so deep, so profound, that it seemed to stop the morning wind from blowing through the open windows.
"A daughter," he whispered, the word rolling across his tongue like a sacred prayer.
"A daughter," I repeated softly. "And her name is Margaret. For the woman who taught me how to read a ledger."
Mason did not speak.
He leaned down, pressed his lips against the swell of my belly, and wept—quiet, cleansing tears that washed away thirty-four years of violence, blood, and fear, dropping onto the ivory silk like morning dew on a spring rose.
I held him.
I held the most feared man in Chicago against my heart, feeling the steady, unbroken rhythm of two lives beating in unison beneath my ribs, watching the sun crest the horizon over Lake Michigan in a magnificent, blinding explosion of liquid gold.
The debts were dead.
May you like
The wolves were buried.
And the house that had started with a twenty-dollar dare on Dearborn Street was now an empire of light that would shelter our blood for a hundred years.
