Chapter 5 - The Surveillance of Love
For the next two weeks, Oak Park became the quietest, most heavily guarded suburb in the state of Illinois.
Alexander didn't send enforcers to kick down my door, and he didn't attempt to force his way inside.
Instead, he established an invisible, impenetrable fortress of protection around my entire existence.
Every morning at seven o'clock, the snow on my front walkway was mysteriously shoveled and salted before I even woke up.
Whenever I walked three blocks to the local organic market, an unmarked gray SUV trailed fifty yards behind, moving at a walking pace.
If a suspicious car lingered near my street corner for more than three minutes, two dark sedans would box it in, question the driver, and escort them back to the interstate.
The local bakery delivered fresh sourdough bread and fruit preserves to my porch every Tuesday morning, paid for by an anonymous corporate account.
On Friday afternoon, the doorbell rang.
I opened the door to find a delivery courier holding a massive wicker basket filled with organic prenatal supplements, soft cashmere baby blankets, and a brand-new German baby monitor system.
Tucked into the handle was an envelope made of heavy, familiar cream cardstock.
I opened the letter:
Rule number one of the Moretti code: A man provides for his blood, even when he has been stripped of his honor.
I am not asking for your forgiveness, Claire.
I am asking for the right to keep you warm.
A.
I set the letter on the entryway table, feeling an ache of conflicting emotions tighten around my ribs.
For five years, I had begged him to notice when my coat was too thin, or when my heater stopped working in the guest wing.
He had always been too busy, too powerful, too preoccupied with keeping peace among the Five Families.
Now, stripped of his title as my husband, he was behaving like the attentive, devoted partner I had prayed for in the dark.
At eight o'clock that evening, the winter wind howled against my living room windows, rattling the glass panes.
I walked to the front bay window, pulling the sheer curtains aside to look out into the snowy street.
Parked beneath the glow of the corner streetlamp was a black Maybach, its engine idling silently, exhaust plumes curling into the freezing night air.
Sitting in the driver's seat, illuminated only by the dim amber dashboard lights, was Alexander.
He had been sitting there for five hours.
He wasn't on his phone, and he wasn't reading reports.
He was simply staring at the warm, glowing lamp in my living room window, keeping watch like an exiled soldier guarding a kingdom he had burned to the ground.
I watched him through the glass, feeling my baby kick firmly against my palm.
"Your father is a stubborn man, little one," I whispered into the quiet room.
May you like
"A brilliant, stubborn, foolish man."
I let the curtain fall, turned off the lamp, and went to bed, knowing that outside in the cold, the monster of Chicago was freezing just to make sure I slept in peace.
