Chapter 8 - The Bench on the Sound
The public pier at Cold Spring Harbor was quiet at one-thirty on a Saturday afternoon.
The summer tourists had long since returned to the city, leaving the weathered wooden planks to the gulls, the salt spray, and the gentle, rhythmic lapping of the gray tide against the barnacled pilings.
At the very end of the pier, sitting on a green-painted municipal bench with his elbows resting on his knees, sat Lucian.
He wore a dark canvas work jacket with fleece lining, heavy denim trousers caked with dry garden soil at the cuffs, and scuffed leather work boots. His black hair was longer than it had ever been, curled slightly around his ears, showing distinct streaks of silver at the temples that had not been there twelve months ago.
His face was weathered by the sun, his hands rough, calloused, his fingernails scrubbed clean.
Beside him on the wooden slats rested a small, handcrafted wooden sailboat. It was about ten inches long, carved from fragrant red cedar, its sails cut from unbleached cotton sailcloth, balanced with a lead keel so perfectly weighted that it would right itself in any chop.
He did not look at his watch. He did not look at his phone—he didn't even carry one.
He simply stared out across the sparkling expanse of the Sound toward the distant Connecticut shoreline, his shoulders settled in the patient, unshakeable stillness of a man who had made peace with his own insignificance.
The soft crunch of gravel on the approach road sounded behind him.
Then came the light, musical laughter of a toddler.
Lucian’s entire body went rigid.
He did not jump up. He did not turn around quickly. He slowly, deliberately turned his head toward the wooden ramp of the pier.
Walking toward him along the planks was me.
I wore a soft camel-hair coat over a cream knit dress, my dark hair falling loose across my shoulders in the autumn breeze.
And walking beside me, his tiny hand clutched firmly inside mine, was Nico.
Nico was wearing a bright yellow raincoat with tiny rubber boots, his big dark eyes wide with wonder as he took in the squawking gulls wheeling through the salt air.
Lucian slowly rose from the bench.
He took half a step backward, giving us the full width of the pier, his hands tucked safely into the pockets of his canvas jacket, his chest heaving as if he had just run ten miles through the snow.
His eyes fell on Nico.
A single, ragged breath escaped his lips, and for the first time in his thirty-eight years of life, the former Don of Manhattan began to weep. The tears ran silent and unashamed down his weathered cheeks, catching the pale October sunlight.
"Hello, Lucian," I said, stopping six feet away.
"Serena," he choked out, his voice cracked and trembling. "You... you came."
"It's Nico’s birthday," I replied softly. "And a boy should know the man who carved his boat."
Nico looked from me to the tall stranger in the work jacket. He tilted his head, his dark curls shifting in the wind, his hazel-black eyes studying Lucian’s face with that intense, unblinking curiosity that belonged entirely to the Moretti bloodline.
Nico’s gaze drifted down to the cedar sailboat resting on the bench.
His eyes lit up with pure, unadulterated delight.
"Boat!" Nico cheered, letting go of my hand, taking four wobbly, hurried steps across the wooden planks, stopping right in front of Lucian’s boots.
Nico reached out, his tiny fingers touching the fragrant cedar hull, then looked up into the weeping face of the giant standing above him.
"Pretty," Nico said in his high, sweet voice.
Lucian slowly, reverently lowered himself onto both knees right there on the salt-stained wood of the pier.
He did not grab the child. He kept his hands flat against his own thighs, giving his son complete control of the space between them.
"Do you like it, Nico?" Lucian whispered, his voice thick with an infinite, tender reverence that made my own throat ache with tears. "I made it for you. From the big tree behind my barn."
Nico picked up the little boat with both hands, turned it over, and then, with the complete, fearless trust of an innocent child, held it out toward Lucian.
"Help," Nico commanded with a bright, demanding smile. "Make it go in the water."
Lucian looked up at me, his eyes wide, pleading, seeking permission like a boy standing before a queen.
I looked at the man who had surrendered an empire, dismantled a crime syndicate, spent a year working the soil, and never once demanded a single right he had not earned.
I walked forward, stopping beside the bench, and smiled.
"Show him how it floats, Lucian," I said softly. "The tide is just right."
Lucian let out a choked, half-strangled sob of pure, unadulterated gratitude.
He gently, tentatively reached out with his large, calloused hands, scooping Nico up into his arms, lifting the child against his chest.
May you like
Nico didn't cry. He didn't pull away. He settled naturally against Lucian’s shoulder, wrapping one arm around his father’s neck while clutching the wooden boat with the other.
Lucian buried his face in the child’s dark curls, breathing in the sweet, clean scent of his son for the very first time in his life, holding his boy with a fierce, protective gentleness that told me the past was finally, truly dead.
