Chapter 6 - The Knock in the Snow
The first winter blizzard struck Door County with furious beauty.
By four o’clock in the afternoon, the pine trees outside my cabin were heavy with thick pillows of snow, the lake obscured behind a swirling curtain of white mist. Inside, the stone hearth crackled with dry birch, filling the living room with the warm, comforting scent of cedar and pine resin.
I sat in an oversized rocking chair by the window, wearing a thick wool sweater that stretched comfortably over my five-month baby bump, sketching designs for a nursery wall mural.
Suddenly, the crunch of heavy boots against packed snow broke through the rhythmic howling of the wind.
I froze. My pencil hovered above the paper, my pulse accelerating into an immediate, defensive hammer against my ribs.
I stood up slowly, one hand resting protectively over my rounded stomach, my eyes darting toward the heavy fire iron leaning against the hearth stones.
Three slow, hesitating knocks sounded against the solid oak front door.
They were not the authoritative, demanding knocks of a mafia don accustomed to having doors kicked open for him.
They were hesitant. Almost apologetic.
“Claire?” a voice called out through the heavy timber.
The voice was rough, cracked with exhaustion, and trembling with a vulnerability that seemed completely alien to the man I had known.
It was Vincent.
My breath caught in my throat. I didn't move. I didn't reach for the latch.
“Claire, please,” he spoke again, his forehead resting audibly against the outside wood. “It’s fifteen degrees out here. I came alone. No guards. No drivers. Just me.”
I walked cautiously to the small side window, pulling the linen curtain back an inch to peer through the frosted glass.
Vincent stood on the snow-covered porch, wearing only a damp wool overcoat with no gloves and no hat. His shoulders were dusted with snow, his hair wild and unkempt, his face hollowed out and lined with deep, dark circles of profound suffering.
He looked thinner. His jawline was sharp with dark stubble, his lips pale and chapped from the freezing wind.
He looked nothing like the untouchable prince of the Chicago syndicate.
He looked like a man who had walked through the depths of hell just to reach a wooden porch in the middle of nowhere.
I let out a slow, steady breath, walked to the door, turned the brass deadbolt, and pulled it open six inches, keeping the heavy chain latched between us.
Vincent’s head lifted instantly.
When his dark eyes met mine, a low, shuddering gasp tore from his throat.
Then his gaze dropped downward, landing on the clear, undeniable swell beneath my woolen sweater.
His knees literally buckled in the snow.
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The man who had stared down federal prosecutors and rival cartels without blinking fell to both knees on the freezing planks of my porch, burying his face in his hands as dry, racking sobs shook his entire frame.
“You’re alive,” he wept, the snow catching in his dark hair. “You’re alive… and our baby is growing.”
