Chapter 8 - The Price of Loyalty
Dawn broke over Casco Ridge not in gray, but in brilliant, blazing gold.
The storm had blown out to sea, leaving the Maine coastline washed clean, the pine needles glistening with fresh dew and the salt air sharp, sweet, and pure.
In the grand foyer of Casco Ridge, the massive iron front doors swung open.
Fiona stood at the top of the marble staircase, wearing a simple gray sweater and jeans, her face pale, her knuckles white against the balustrade. Behind her stood Declan, Sylvie, Jonah, and Minnie, huddled together in breathless, terrified silence.
Roger walked through the threshold.
He was covered in soot, dried blood, and salt spray. But in his arms, wrapped securely in his heavy cashmere coat, was Peter.
The boy was asleep, his cheek resting against Roger's broad shoulder, his thumb tucked near his mouth, breathing deeply and peacefully.
Fiona didn't walk down the stairs. She flew.
She hit the marble floor at a dead sprint, throwing her arms around both Roger and Peter, burying her face into her son's neck, weeping so violently that her knees gave out completely.
Roger dropped to one knee to support her weight, his arm wrapping around her waist, holding mother and son together against his chest.
"He's whole, Fiona," Roger whispered, his voice thick with an emotion no one in Cumberland County had ever heard from him. "He's safe."
Declan, Sylvie, and Jonah tumbled down the stairs, surrounding them on the marble floor. Declan had his hand on Peter's back, tears silently streaming down his bruised cheek. Sylvie was crying openly, hugging Jonah, while Minnie reached up on tiptoe to pat Roger's knee.
"You brought my Peter back," Minnie said matter-of-factly. "You're not the scary man anymore."
Roger looked down at the five-year-old girl, the ghost of a soft, exhausted smile touching his lips. "I'm glad to have that cleared up, Minnie."
For the next four hours, Casco Ridge was filled with the frantic, beautiful chaos of healing.
Dr. Aris cleaned Peter’s cuts and confirmed he had no concussion. Mrs. Higgins cooked a mountain of blueberry pancakes, scrambled eggs, and crisp bacon that disappeared from the dining room table in twenty minutes. Peter sat between Fiona and Declan, refusing to let go of Fiona's hand, while Jonah bombarded Malcolm with questions about tactical breaching charges until Malcolm finally laughed and showed the boy his radio headset.
By noon, the house had grown quiet again. The children, exhausted from the terror of the night, had all collapsed into a massive pile of blankets and pillows in the east sitting room, sleeping soundly beneath the warm afternoon sun.
Fiona walked into the estate's grand library looking for Roger.
She found him sitting behind his massive walnut desk, staring out the floor-to-ceiling windows at the sparkling Atlantic. He was dressed in a clean, dark suit, but his face looked older, shadowed by a quiet, heavy weariness.
On the desk in front of him lay a thick stack of legal documents with blue ribbon seals.
"Roger?" Fiona said softly, closing the heavy double doors behind her.
He looked up. His expression was once again guarded, composed, and unnervingly still.
"They're asleep?" he asked.
"All five of them," Fiona smiled softly, walking toward the desk. "Peter ate four pancakes. He told Sylvie you flew down from the roof like Batman."
Roger didn't smile. He looked down at the papers on his desk.
"Dr. Aris says Peter will have no lasting physical trauma," Roger said evenly. "Children are resilient. But they shouldn't have to be."
Fiona’s smile faded. A cold knot formed in her stomach. "Roger, what are those papers?"
Roger turned the documents toward her.
"Deeds," he said flatly. "And an irrevocable trust fund. There is an estate in the Berkshires, near Lenox, Massachusetts. Four hundred acres. A historic home, fully staffed, completely isolated from any maritime commercial interests. The trust provides forty thousand dollars a month for living expenses, plus full tuition for all five children through graduate school."
Fiona stared at the papers, her breath catching in her throat. "What are you talking about?"
"Vittorio Vance is dead," Roger said, his voice flat and clinical. "His network was handed over to the United States Attorney’s office two hours ago along with Thomas's flash drive. Your late husband’s name has been completely cleared. He is being posthumously awarded a commendation for whistleblowing by the Department of Transportation."
"Then why—"
"Because Vance wasn't the first, and he won't be the last," Roger interrupted, standing up from his desk. He walked around to face her, towering over her, his pale eyes dark with pain. "My world is violent, Fiona. Men look at me and they see targets. They see leverage. Last night, Peter nearly died because he lived under my roof."
"Peter was taken because of Thomas's drive!" Fiona argued, her voice rising with fierce conviction. "Not because of you!"
"It doesn't matter whose fault it was!" Roger snapped, his composure cracking for the first time. "What matters is what happens next! I am a mafia boss, Fiona. People whisper my name in fear. I have blood on my hands that will never wash out. Your children deserve light. They deserve normal schools, normal neighbors, and a father who doesn't have to check the perimeter before he sits down for breakfast."
He gestured toward the papers.
"Take the trust. Take the house in Lenox. Malcolm will drive you tomorrow. You will never have to worry about money, safety, or rent for the rest of your life."
Fiona stared at the documents. Then she looked up into Roger Albani’s face.
She took three slow steps forward until she was standing inches from his chest.
Then, with deliberate, furious precision, Fiona reached down, grabbed the thick stack of deeds and trust funds—and tore them completely in half.
Roger froze. "Fiona—"
She tore them again, dropping the shredded pieces of legal parchment onto the Persian rug like confetti.
"You arrogant, stubborn idiot," Fiona whispered, her hazel eyes blazing with a fury so bright it made the feared mafia boss take a half-step back.
"Fiona, I am trying to protect you—"
"You spent your whole life protecting people who work for you," Fiona said, poking him hard in the center of his broad, muscular chest. "You think you can just buy us safety in Massachusetts and go back to sitting in this giant, lonely museum waiting to die alone?"
"I don't belong in a family," Roger said, his jaw tightening painfully.
"You don't get to decide that anymore," Fiona fired back, her voice shaking with tears of passion. "Declan learned how to stand like a man because you took the time to teach him. Jonah hasn't had an asthma attack in twenty-four hours because you broke your back moving furniture for him. Sylvie drew you smiling at our table because she sees who you really are! And Peter..."
Her voice broke, a single tear spilling over her cheek.
"Peter held on to a dead flower because he knew you were coming for him."
Roger looked at her, his throat working silently, completely defenseless before her words.
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"We don't want a castle in the Berkshires, Roger," Fiona whispered, reaching up to lay her palm against his scarred cheek. "We want this castle. And we want you."
***
