Chapter 10: The Uptown Sanctuary
The town car dropped us off not at a nondescript apartment building or a fortified warehouse, but at a stately limestone brownstone tucked away on a quiet, tree-lined side street on Seventy-Third Street. The wrought-iron gate clicked shut behind us with a heavy, satisfying sound that completely swallowed the frantic noise of the city.
When I pushed the heavy oak front door open, holding a sleeping Leo against my chest, I expected to find a fortress of dark wood paneling, armed guards, and cold marble floors reminiscent of the restaurant dining room. Instead, I stepped into a warm, vaulted foyer bathed in natural amber light pouring through a massive skylight. The walls were lined with towering bookshelves filled with leather-bound volumes, and a low-burning fire crackled softly in a marble hearth at the far end of the parlor.
"He'll be down in a moment, miss," a middle-aged woman with kind eyes and a graying bun said, stepping out from the kitchen with a clean dish towel in her hands. "I'm Martha. Mr. Vincent told me you and the little one would be needing some quiet time."
Leo stirred against my shoulder, his small fingers knotting into the fabric of my shirt as he blinked sleepily against the unfamiliar brightness of the room.
"Is this... is this where he lives?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper as I looked around the impeccably curated space. It looked lived-in, cared for, and utterly detached from the violence of the syndicate world.
"This is where he keeps what matters," Martha replied gently, motioning toward a deep, plush sofa facing the hearth. "Sit down, child. You look like you haven't slept a full night since the boy was born."
Before I could answer, the soft click of footsteps drew my attention toward the curved staircase at the side of the room. Vincent descended slowly, having discarded his suit jacket in favor of a crisp white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, exposing the dark ink curling across his forearms. He looked less like a mafia boss and more like a man who had finally returned to a home he spent years building in secret.
"Martha takes good care of anyone under this roof," Vincent said, stopping a few feet away from the sofa. His dark eyes flicked from my face down to Leo, who was now staring at him with wide, curious brown eyes. "You didn't have to come, Clara. But I'm glad you did."
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"I didn't have much of a choice," I replied, my chin lifting defensively even as I felt the warmth of the fire begin to thaw the chill in my bones. "Your men made sure my kitchen was stocked with things I can't afford and a phone I didn't ask for."
Vincent gave a faint, humorless smile, stepping closer until I could catch the clean scent of cedarwood and soap. "In this city, the things you can't afford are usually the only things that keep you alive. Let's eat. Then we'll talk about what happens next."
