Chapter 7 - The Rhythms of Life
Spring came to Maine not with a whisper, but with the sudden, violent cracking of ice on the bay.
Vivien’s pregnancy entered the final trimester.
They spent their days decorating the nursery—a small room with windows facing the Atlantic.
Lorenzo spent hours painting the trim, his focus shifting from the survival of his organization to the survival of a crib.
"Do you think he’ll hate us?" Lorenzo asked, pausing with his brush.
"He won't know the name Moretti," Vivien said, adjusting a mobile. "He’ll know the father who sits by the fireplace and the mother who draws the world."
Lorenzo felt a sudden, sharp ache of vulnerability.
He was terrified of being a father.
"I don't know how to raise a boy," he confessed.
Vivien sat on the small rocking chair, her gaze fixed on him.
"You teach him to look at the world clearly. That’s all a father does."
He returned to his work, the paint strokes smooth and deliberate.
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The man who had once terrified cities was now worried about the color of a nursery wall.
And it was the best feeling he had ever known.
