Chapter 9 - The Reconstruction of the East Wing
Six months later, the spring of 2026 arrived with a brilliant, clear sunlight that turned the grass of the Highland Park estate into a vibrant emerald carpet. The heavy iron security gates at the front entrance remained, but they had been painted a soft, welcoming white, wrapped in climbing rows of pink hydrangeas and white roses.
The east wing of the mansion had been completely gutted. The dark mahogany paneling and the oppressive oil portraits of previous generations were gone, replaced by light oak floorboards, floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over the lake, and walls painted in bright, warm shades of cream and sky blue.
Arthur Costello ran through the long gallery, his legs strong, his movements fluid and entirely free of the spastic tremors that had once bound him to his bed. He was wearing a Chicago Cubs jersey, a baseball glove clutched in his left hand, his face flushed with the healthy glow of a seven-year-old boy who spent his afternoons skinning his knees in the dirt.
"Fiona! Look! Marco taught me how to throw a slider!" Arthur yelled, skidding to a halt on the polished floorboards near the library door.
Fiona stepped out of the adjoining room, wearing a simple linen sun shirt and jeans, her dark hair pulled back in a neat ponytail. She looked healthy, her skin clear of the emergency room exhaustion, her eyes bright with a deep, permanent contentment.
"That’s wonderful, Arthur," she said, leaning down to catch him as he launched himself into her arms for a hug. "But remember the rule—no sliders inside the house unless you want to explain a broken window to your dad."
"My dad won't care," Dominic’s voice called out from the grand staircase.
He descended into the gallery, wearing a simple white linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his charcoal trousers replaced by casual denim. The lethal, terrifying aura that had once surrounded him had settled into a quiet, unshakeable authority—the look of a man who no longer had to fight for his territory because he had already won the peace.
The Costello logistics lines had been completely cleared of the underground syndicates, converted into a legitimate, multi-billion-dollar international shipping firm that specialized in medical supplies and relief transport across the Atlantic. The corrupt politicians had been dropped from the payroll, replaced by a massive charitable foundation that funded pediatric neurology research at Northwestern Memorial.
Dominic walked over to Fiona, his hand reaching out to wrap around her waist, pulling her close against his side as Arthur scrambled back down to chase Marco through the gardens.
"The board of trustees called this morning," Dominic said, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly baritone that still sent a delicious shiver down her spine. "The new wing at the hospital is officially complete. They’re naming it the Jenkins Pediatric Trauma Center."
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Fiona looked up at him, her hazel eyes reflecting the bright spring sun. "You didn't have to buy the whole hospital, Dominic."
"I didn't buy it for them, Fiona. I bought it for you," he said, his fingers gently tracing the line of her jaw. "Every child who comes through those doors will have the best care in the city because the woman who runs it knows how to fight the monsters in the dark."
