Chapter 9 - The Second Harvest
Six months had passed since the snow had washed the blood from the Lake Forest driveway, and the first weekend of June had brought a brilliant, hot summer to the Chicago suburbs. The ancient weeping willow trees around the Voss estate were full, green, and swaying gently under a warm breeze rolling off a blue Lake Michigan.
The grand terrace at the back of the house was filled with the sound of children’s laughter—not a hidden, quiet sound, but a loud, unbridled roar that echoed across the stone walls.
Wren was running across the lush green lawn, her bright yellow sundress fluttering behind her, her small feet bare against the thick grass. She was currently being chased by Marcus Reilly, who had removed his tactical jacket and was running on his knees, his massive frame shaking with a deep, booming laughter as the girl turned and pelted him with a handful of dandelion heads.
"She’s getting fast, Boss," Marcus shouted up toward the terrace, his old face bright with a relaxation that his captains had never seen during the transition wars.
Callum sat at the low iron table on the terrace, a glass of iced tea between his hands. He wore a simple white linen shirt, his sleeves rolled up, his skin tanned from the summer sun, his gray eyes tracking his daughter’s movement with an absolute, peaceful satisfaction.
Iris walked out through the double glass doors of the sunroom, carrying a large silver platter of fresh lemon cakes Clara had baked that morning. She had gained weight since the winter; her face was full, her light brown hair falling loose over her shoulders in thick, healthy curls, her dark eyes reflecting the brilliant light of the garden.
"Thomas called from the bakery," Iris said, setting the platter down on the table and sliding into the chair beside him. "He says the new ovens are cleared by the inspectors. He’s already got an order for fifty loaves of sourdough from the restaurant group on the North Side. He told me to tell you that if you don't stop sending your security drivers to sweep his sidewalk, he’s going to start charging them for the cannoli."
Callum managed a short, genuine laugh, his hand reaching out to cover hers on the tabletop. His large silver watch caught the sun, the ticking second hand moving across a future that carried no hidden contracts.
"The drivers like the cannoli, Iris," Callum smiled, his thumb tracing the smooth gold band she had placed on his finger during a quiet, private ceremony at the Oak Park courthouse three weeks ago. "It’s the only form of tax they’re allowed to collect now."
Before she could answer, Dr. Harrison walked out onto the terrace from the private medical wing of the house, a folder of printed medical sheets under his arm. He sat down across from them, his old face professional but warm.
"The prenatal screenings are completely flawless, Mrs. Voss," the doctor said, handing the sheet to Iris. "The levels are identical to those of a healthy twenty-eight-year-old woman who has nothing but fresh air and clean water in her life. The baby’s heartbeat is strong. One hundred and forty beats per minute. A perfect rhythm."
Callum looked at the document, his fingers tracing the small, digital image of the ultrasound—a second tiny heartbeat growing within the sanctuary they had built out of the ruins of the old empire. He looked up at Iris, his gray eyes bright with an emotion so profound it made his breath catch in his throat.
May you like
"Another one," he whispered.
"Another one," she smiled, her hand moving down to rest over her stomach beneath her blue cotton dress. "And this one is going to grow up with a father who doesn't have to look over his shoulder."
