Chapter 19 #3
Two floors from the penthouse, I feel heat rise in my face. “This place is a lot. It’s… overwhelming. It’s never photographed. It’s been Dad’s sanctuary. A place he can be himself and not worry about what anyone may want from him.”
“Ma’am, I don’t talk about what I see on welfare checks. Especially not when money’s involved. Not even to my wife. Especially not my…” The doors open and he finishes in a breath, “my wife.”
I take Claudia’s hand before she can stop me, because what waits beyond the threshold isn’t just a home. It’s scale. It’s power. It’s the kind of space that recalibrates your sense of reality, whether you want it to or not.
The penthouse is a single, uninterrupted floor, sprawling and deliberate, carved into five distinct wings radiating from a central living expanse like a compass. Not hallways. Wings. Each one is a private kingdom.
The main living area is cathedral-sized, ceilings soaring, glass wrapping nearly every exterior wall, so Manhattan feels less like a city and more like a moving mural.
The skyline stretches endlessly, bridges lit like arteries, traffic pulsing far below.
It’s quiet up here. Not silent. Elevated.
Like the city knows it doesn’t get to touch this space.
Underfoot, pale stone floors warmed just enough so your feet are never cold. No echo. Everything absorbs sound. Money does that.
Straight ahead sits the grand salon, anchored by seating that faces outward toward the view rather than inward.
Conversations happen beside the city, not instead of it.
A concert grand piano rests near the windows, polished, tuned, respected.
Not decorative, it’s used. A library wall stretches floor to ceiling, books worn, annotated, loved.
The kitchen behind us is massive but restrained, all muted marble and brushed metal.
A chef’s kitchen pretending it isn’t one, and that is what butler pantries are for.
The central island is built for gatherings that rarely happen anymore.
Coffee already set out, cups placed where someone expects hands to reach in the morning.
The smell is clean citrus and old leather and… Dad.
“Well,” Claudia says. “We’re not in Brooklyn anymore.”
“Understatement of the century.” The officer says.
Each wing branches off from the center:
One wing is clearly Dad’s. The master suite is beyond oversized, with a bedroom, sitting room, fireplace, office nook, and a bath that looks like it belongs in a European palace. The door is half-closed. Lights low. He’s asleep.
I point in that direction, “Dad’s wing.”
The officer looks down at his feet, as if considering taking off his boots. “You’re good.”
He walks that way, but I stay with Claudia.
“You should go,” she says.
I shake my head, “The night nurse is in there, he’s fine.”
We stand there, silence enveloping us, as I imagine what she must be thinking.
Then she asks, amused, “Do you have a wing?”
I nod to the left, “Tour time.”
“I don’t—”
“You have full access. You should know the layout.” I pull her behind me. “I’ve never invited anyone here; it’s almost embarrassing.”
“Yeah, I can see why,” she jokes.
“This wing was supposed to be a guest suite, but when neither of them moved in, the family wing was kind of left empty. They don’t even stay when they visit once a freaking year.
“This is just a fraction smaller than Dad’s. Same amenities.” I open the door, “Bedroom, bath, sitting area, private balcony. It’s too much.”
She squeezes my hand, “Stop apologizing for your life and show me more.”
So, I do. The third wing is quieter. A wellness suite. Gym, treatment room, meditation space. Windows positioned for sunrise.
“Everything designed to keep a man functioning longer than his body might allow, but it did nothing for him.”
“I’m so sorry you’re doing this all alone.”
“I’m not alone here ever,” I whisper. Then look at her, “When you landed in the city, my life changed. Now I have you, my four girls, and hockey.
The fourth wing is the most telling. A family wing.
Media room. Multiple bedrooms, all with identical layouts.
Neutral. Unclaimed. Prepared for people who never quite arrived, a place where right now, I imagine Claudia and I getting ready for school, having sleepovers, because she would have insisted we be normal, and I’d have fought for it.
“This isn’t what luxury should feel like. This is cold marble, everything gold-plated and silent; it’s a controlled and catered space. I have hated it my entire life, yet now I know I’ll miss it.”
Claudia’s fingers curl tighter into mine. “It’s odd not to feel even the slightest bit of envy of a life that could have been. I just wish we had known each other sooner. I think we were both lonely.”
“Not that this excuses him for not finding you, but he was too.” I shake my head. “He wanted a family to share all this with and, well, now it’s like he built his own cage.”
“It’s a stunning one.”
“The fifth wing, dining and entertainment.” I force a laugh. “Never used.”
“I imagine you’ll host amazing dinner parties one day.” She smiles softly. “Your kids will—”
“I don’t want to raise kids like this. I want warmth, messes of toys, noise, and a dog to raise hell in a backyard. I want my daughter to try to sneak out her window and not know she’d be splattered all over concrete if she actually did so, she just… exists.”
A throat clears behind us, and we turn.
“James sent us up,” Aleks says, running his hand through his messy hair, still wet from the quick shower he took before we left the arena for Icehouse.