Chapter 7 - The Reckoning
The aftermath was swift, silent, and absolute.
Within forty-eight hours, the DeLuca family had ceased to exist in the Hudson Valley. Their warehouses in Jersey City were bought out through shell corporations; their enforcement crews were scattered or absorbed, and Frankie DeLuca was put on a one-way train out of New York state with a warning that returning meant an early retirement at the bottom of the Atlantic.
Max spent three days in Manhattan, cleaning up the loose ends of his empire with the brutal efficiency that had made his name famous.
When he returned to Ironwood Ridge on Monday night, he found Cece waiting in his library.
She sat by the fire, reading an old book, a cup of tea cooling on the table beside her.
Max stood in the heavy oak doorway, still wearing his black suit, his coat dark with melted snow. He looked tired—exhausted in a way that food or sleep couldn't fix.
He didn't walk over to kiss her. He stayed by the door, his hands plunged deep into his pockets.
"It's over," Max said softly. "DeLuca is gone. The tracks are clear."
Cece set her book down. She looked at his distant posture, her brow furrowing. "Then why do you look like you're attending a funeral?"
Max swallowed hard, his jaw clenching.
"Because Friday almost cost me your life," Max said, his voice breaking slightly on the last word. "If you hadn't caught that manifest, if DeLuca's men had seen you in that control tower..."
He stopped, turning his face toward the dark window.
"My world is poison, Cece," he whispered. "I've spent twenty years living in shadows, fighting men who have no blood in their veins. You belong in the light. You belong with normal people who don't have to check their cars for bombs before they turn the key."
Cece stood up slowly. She walked across the thick oriental rug, stopping directly in front of him.
"Are you breaking up with me, Massimo Corvelli?"
Max looked down at her, his eyes tortured. "I'm trying to protect you."
SLAP.
The sound echoed sharply through the quiet library.
Max’s head snapped slightly to the left. He stared at her, utterly shocked, his hand rising to touch his cheek where her palm had landed.
Cece stood her ground, her blue-gray eyes flashing with a fierce, burning anger that made her look magnificent.
"Don't you dare," Cece snapped, her voice trembling with emotion. "Don't you dare decide what I can handle! I spent seven years watching my father die inch by inch! I spent two years watching my mother fade away into nothing because she was afraid to live! I am not a fragile glass flower you can pack away in a box!"
She jabbed her finger against his hard chest.
"I chose you! I chose the rain, I chose the bench, and I chose the man sitting on it! If you think you're going to push me away out of some noble, tragic mafia bullshit... you'd better get a bigger wrench, Max, because I am not leaving!"
Max stared at her.
Slowly, the tension in his broad shoulders broke. A low, rumbling laugh started deep in his chest—a real, unfiltered sound of joy that he hadn't made in twenty years.
He grabbed her waist, lifting her off her feet, and pulled her flush against his chest, burying his face in the soft crook of her neck.
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"You are insane," Max murmured, his voice thick with tears he refused to shed. "Completely, wonderfully insane."
"I'm a ticket clerk from Hawthorne," Cece whispered into his ear, her arms wrapping tight around his neck. "We don't take nonsense from anyone. Especially not from mob bosses."
