Chapter 11 - THE MAN WHO LEARNED TO KNOCK
Vincent arrived in New York the next morning.
Not with six armed men.
Not with a convoy of black SUVs.
Not with expensive flowers.
He came alone.
Carrying a small suitcase.
He stood outside my apartment.
Then knocked.
Three soft knocks.
I opened the door.
He stared at me.
At my face.
Then at my stomach.
His eyes filled.
“Claire.”
I swallowed.
“Hi.”
He looked down again.
Then whispered:
“That's our son?”
I nodded.
“Yes.”
Vincent covered his mouth.
For a moment, he looked nothing like the feared Mafia boss I had married.
He looked like a frightened man who had missed something precious.
“Can I…”
He hesitated.
“Can I touch your stomach?”
My heart tightened.
I nodded.
He stepped closer.
Placed one trembling hand against my belly.
Gabriel kicked.
Vincent froze.
Then laughed through tears.
“Oh, God.”
I smiled.
“He's active.”
Vincent looked at me.
His eyes were wet.
“I missed everything.”
I swallowed.
“Yes.”
He nodded slowly.
“I know.”
He looked down.
“I'm sorry.”
For once, the apology didn't sound like a negotiation.
It sounded like grief.
I stepped aside.
“Come in.”
He entered.
Then stopped when he saw the nursery.
The crib.
The tiny clothes.
The blue blanket.
He stood in the doorway for a long moment.
Then whispered:
“You did all this alone?”
I looked at him.
“Madison helped.”
He nodded.
His eyes filled again.
“Claire.”
I waited.
He turned.
“I don't deserve a second chance.”
I said nothing.
He continued.
“But I want to be his father.”
I looked down at my stomach.
Then back at Vincent.
“You can be his father.”
His expression changed.
“But that doesn't mean we become husband and wife again.”
He nodded.
May you like
“I understand.”
And for the first time, I believed him.
