Chapter 7 - One Year Later
Rain fell against the windows again.
Almost exactly one year after Atticus had returned home five days early.
But the house smelled different now.
Coffee.
Fresh bread.
Cordelia's jasmine perfume.
No antiseptic.
No bleach.
No chemotherapy bags.
Atticus stood in the kitchen wearing jeans and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, tattoos visible along his forearms and disappearing beneath the fabric.
His phone rang.
Marcus.
“What?”
“Good morning to you too.”
“What do you want?”
“We've got a problem at Graham Logistics.”
Atticus sighed.
His criminal empire was gone.
Graham Logistics was legitimate now.
Painfully legitimate.
Taxes.
Auditors.
Human resources.
Atticus occasionally claimed organized crime had involved less paperwork.
“What problem?”
“Union contract.”
Atticus smiled.
“Offer twelve percent.”
“Eight.”
“Ten.”
“Nine.”
“Ten and better health insurance.”
Marcus paused.
“You've gotten soft.”
Atticus looked toward the staircase.
“Maybe.”
He hung up.
Cordelia appeared.
Her hair had grown back short and wavy.
She carried an envelope.
Atticus immediately frowned.
“What is that?”
“Relax.”
“Medical?”
“Yes.”
His expression changed.
“Cordelia.”
“Atticus.”
“Open it.”
“You open it.”
“No.”
She smiled.
“The great Atticus Graham is afraid of an envelope?”
“Absolutely.”
She handed it to him.
His fingers trembled.
Cordelia noticed.
She placed her hand over his.
“Together.”
They opened it.
Atticus read silently.
Then again.
Cordelia watched his face.
“Well?”
He couldn't speak.
She took the paper.
Her eyes moved across the results.
Then she smiled.
“Still clear.”
Atticus exhaled.
He pulled her against him.
Cordelia rested her head against his chest.
After a moment, she whispered:
“I need to tell you something.”
Atticus immediately stiffened.
“What?”
“Don't panic.”
“That's a terrible beginning.”
She stepped back.
“There was another appointment.”
His eyebrows lowered.
“What appointment?”
Cordelia reached into her pocket.
She handed him a small photograph.
Atticus looked down.
He didn't understand at first.
Then he did.
His eyes widened.
“Is this—”
“Yes.”
He looked at her.
“You're pregnant?”
Cordelia nodded.
Atticus sat down.
Actually sat.
Cordelia laughed.
“Are you okay?”
“No.”
“You look pale.”
“I've been shot twice.”
“I know.”
“I've been stabbed.”
“I know.”
“I've had guns against my head.”
“Atticus.”
He stared at the ultrasound.
“I'm going to be somebody's father.”
Cordelia's smile softened.
“Yes.”
He looked terrified.
She laughed again.
“You ran an empire.”
“That was easier.”
“You'll learn.”
He stood and wrapped his arms around her carefully.
“How far?”
“Ten weeks.”
“Does Mercer know?”
“Yes.”
“Is it safe?”
“She says everything looks good.”
Atticus closed his eyes.
For several seconds, he simply held her.
Then Cordelia whispered:
“You know what's strange?”
“What?”
“If you hadn't come home early that night, I probably would've kept hiding it.”
Atticus pulled back.
“And if you hadn't gotten sick, I probably would've kept pretending the life I had was worth protecting.”
Outside, rain slid down the windows.
The same sound.
A completely different life.
Atticus looked around the house.
Once, it had been filled with guards, weapons, secrets, and rooms nobody truly lived in.
Now a half-finished nursery waited upstairs.
His wife stood alive in his arms.
And the ultrasound photograph remained clutched in his tattooed hand.
Cordelia smiled.
“Any regrets?”
Atticus thought about Chicago.
The shipping routes.
The money.
The men who once feared his name.
Then he looked at his wife.
“Just one.”
“What?”
“That it took me so long to come home.”
Cordelia kissed him.
And for the first time in Atticus Graham's life, there was no enemy waiting outside the door.
No territory to defend.
No gun within reach.
There was simply a home.
A wife who had survived.
A child on the way.
And a man who had finally discovered that the most important empire he would ever protect had never existed on a map.
May you like
It had been waiting for him at home all along.
THE END
