Chapter 173: Too late for that
Chapter 173: Too late for that
The small apartment, a humble but meticulously clean two-bedroom unit on the second floor, felt like a sanctuary. It was a world away from the sterile concrete of the prison and the cold grandeur of the life they had once led. The air was filled with the scent of Catherine’s simple home-cooked meal and the faint, sweet smell of tempera paint and glitter.
Kieran sat cross-legged on the faded rug, utterly captivated. Chiara, perched precariously close, was giving him a serious, guided tour of her artistic portfolio.
"And this is a kitty!" she announced, holding up a crude, yet recognizable, drawing of a feline with four oversized legs. "It’s purple because purple is the best color."
Kieran took the paper, holding it as if it were a priceless document. “It is the best purple kitty, sweetheart. Look how happy he is.” He kissed the top of her head, impressive at how she barely mixed English with French and Italian now. Catherine probably stopped talking to her in other languages at home, she was dealing with too many things now. His heart ached with a sensation that was both overwhelming joy and crushing anxiety. Every giggle, every bright, unburdened smile she offered him, hammered home the truth: this little girl was his entire world.
His gaze flickered over her small frame, then to Catherine, who was clearing plates in the tiny kitchen. For Chiara, he would dismantle empires. For her, he would endure any pain. For her, he would kill, he would die, he would do anything. Nothing else in the world held any value.
He watched Catherine move, the efficient, quiet grace she possessed even in this cramped space. His mind traveled back, flashing to the first time he saw her. Seventeen. A girl with sun-kissed hair and a smile that could melt ice—the warmest, most genuinely pure human being he had ever encountered in his dark world. And look at her now. She was still beautiful, still carried that essential light, but it was forged in fire. She stood strong, a survivor of manipulation, violence, cruelty, and devastating heartbreak.
A cold, familiar dread tightened his chest.
Would that be Chiara’s fate?
To grow up perpetually looking over her shoulder? To be a victim of unspeakable violence and fear, simply because she was his daughter? Because she bore his name and was linked to his terrible life?
Later, the apartment was quiet. Kieran had tucked Chiara into bed, whispering promises of an amazing birthday party tomorrow and kissing her until she was drowsy with love. He returned to the main bedroom.
Catherine was already in bed. She was wearing one of his old, oversized white t-shirts that fell to mid-thigh, paired with delicate lace panties. Her freshly washed hair was slightly damp, spread like a dark fan across the pillow. She was perched on her elbow, looking out the window at the distant city lights, slowly sipping a glass of water. She looked so simple, so completely unadorned, yet impossibly hot. To Kieran, she was the most beautiful woman who had ever lived.
He walked up behind her and gently wrapped his arms around her waist, resting his chin on her shoulder.
“This,” he murmured, his voice a low, rough rumble against her ear, “is all temporary, Cat. Soon, you’ll have everything back. The house, the cars, the jewels. Everything you deserve.”
Catherine smiled, a soft, genuine smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I don’t really care about any of that, Kieran.”
He tightened his grip, turning her to face him, his hands resting on her cheekbones. “But you deserve it. You deserve the world, love.”
Her eyes searched his, deep and unwavering. “I just want you.”
Kieran leaned in, his forehead resting against hers. A wave of agonizing self-recrimination washed over him. “I don’t deserve you, Catherine.”
“Don’t say that,” she whispered, her hand rising to cup his jaw.
“It’s a fact,” he insisted, his voice laced with pain. “I don’t think anyone could ever be good enough to deserve you, but I certainly am not.”
“Save your consciousness crisis for another day, Kieran.” Catherine pulled back slightly, her expression hurt and annoyed. “I waited almost two months for you to get out of jail, I don’t want to hear your whining about the past. I want you to fuck me.”
Kieran’s reservations, his guilt, and his fear dissolved in the light of her unwavering acceptance. He took her face in his hands, his eyes conveying all the love, devotion, and apology words couldn’t contain. He closed the distance between them, kissing her passionately, a desperate, possessive kiss that promised permanence in their temporary sanctuary.
“I fucking love you,” he breathed against her mouth.
“I love you too,” she responded, gripping the collar of his shirt.
He kissed her again, a slow, deep affirmation of their reunion, then scooped her up effortlessly from the bed and onto his lap, pulling her closer until no space remained between them.
The terrace of the small apartment complex was temporarily transformed into a burst of color and childhood joy. Balloons bobbed gently in the afternoon breeze, paper streamers hung haphazardly, and a dozen neighborhood children, fueled by sugar, chased one another around plastic folding chairs.
Chiara, crowned with a small, glittery tiara, was radiant. She was perched on Kieran’s shoulders, laughing as he ducked and weaved, pretending to be a clumsy giant. Catherine stood nearby, her face alight with an expression of pure, unguarded happiness Kieran hadn't seen in months. They looked, Solomon observed, like a normal, functional family, a perfect tableau of domestic bliss.
Solomon, positioned slightly apart near a potted fern, watched the scene with a complex, bittersweet sensation curling in his chest. He remembered a birthday years ago, in England, when he and Catherine had put on a similar celebration for a much smaller Chiara. He had acted the part of the doting father figure then, too.
He felt a profound sense of loss, though he knew the truth: Catherine and Chiara were never his to lose. They belonged here, with Kieran, in this whirlwind of shared laughter and love. He wondered, with a rare flash of personal introspection, if he would ever have this—this effortless, messy, unconditional love—after all the fighting, all the calculation, after Kieran took back his empire. Meet a nice girl, have a couple of kids… Maybe it’s what Laura would have wanted.
Just as the children gathered to sing the final chorus of "Happy Birthday," Solomon’s private, encrypted phone vibrated silently in his jacket pocket. He recognized the security rating on the unfamiliar number and stepped away, moving to the relative quiet of the terrace railing.
He answered with a cool, detached tone. “Yes.”
The voice on the other end was strained, bordering on hysterical, yet instantly recognizable:
“Solomon. It’s me. It’s Allegra. Allegra Valente.”
“Ah, the damsel in distress,” Solomon murmured, his gaze fixed on Kieran, who was expertly cutting the cake. “What the fuck are you doing calling me, Allegra?”
“He left me!” she cried, the sound thick with desperation. “My uncle just vanished! The FBI is everywhere, they’re hunting him down. I… I just gave birth to my son, Solomon. And my uncle just walked out and left me here unprotected.”
Solomon took a deliberate, calming breath, intrigued despite himself. Gabo running confirmed the effectiveness of the FBI’s coordinated pressure. “And you call me?” Solomon’s voice was dangerously low. “Why would you possibly call me, Allegra?”
“You are the only person who can plead for my life,” she pleaded, her voice cracking. “Kieran wants me dead, Solomon. You know he does, after everything I did. He will come for me. He will come for my baby.”
Solomon’s lips curved into a cold, mirthless smile. "And why should I care if Kieran comes for you? You chose your side. As a matter of fact, if Kieran wants you dead, so do I."
"No, wait! Please, Solomon, I have information. Information that will change everything. Just give me protection."
"Allegra," Solomon said dismissively, glancing at Chiara stuffing cake into her mouth. "It’s far too late for pleas. Whatever you know, it’s irrelevant now. We are past the need for low-level informants."
“No!” she screamed, the sound echoing tinny through the phone. "It's about Kieran. Solomon, I know who Kieran's biological father is... And, trust me, you'll never guess how this information concerns you too."