Chapter 25
TWENTY-FIVE
Deacon
Paul spreads the blueprints across the island like he’s planning a heist and wants me involved, not renovating a four-story Brooklyn beast of a brownstone. I stare down at the neat lines and measurements, trying to figure out how the hell he pulled this off so fast.
“You sure about this?” I ask, squinting at the schematics.
“Damn right I am.” He nods with enough confidence to make this seem legit. Then he flips open a sketch pad. “The inspiration.”
I blink. “A drawing is your inspiration for turning a property that could bankroll itself forever into a single-family home that is going to drain your bank account?”
He stabs a finger at the fourth floor. “Single-family home and a hen house. And don’t you worry about my bank account. Men from my generation may not have made the money you younglings do, but we didn’t piss away what we made on fancy sportscars and prostitutes.”
Incredible. Truly.
I press my lips together. “Are these certified plans a contractor can actually use, or did you buy them off some random site that sends customer service emails from a guy named Vlad at three in the morning?”
Paul scoffs, offended. “Relax. The original blueprints and the deed got handed off to that fancy city guy Costello has in his pocket. And that guy knew another guy, who knew another guy, who had a demo crew ready to jump the second they heard the word go.”
I stare.
He keeps going, all proud of himself. “They are saving as much of the original trim as they can. The third floor is already cleared. They’re working their way down.”
My jaw drops. “They already started?”
“Yep.”
“Without permits?”
He shrugs. “Maybe. Maybe not. That part is above my pay grade.”
I drag both hands down my face. “Paul, if this entire thing ends with us on an episode titled Renovation Gone Wrong, or I end up walking in and get killed from a fallen beam because some hack didn’t know what a load-bearing wall is, I will haunt you.”
He grins like he is immune to consequences. “Then I’d better make the kitchen nice. Ghost you will no doubt be sniffing around my girls and expect dinner or some shit.”
My girls. Any other man said that, his age or not, and it would have my hackles rising, but I like that he calls them that. I like it a lot.
I clear my throat, needing neutral ground before my brain runs off a cliff.
“So. How’s PT?”
“I like him. Better than the one they sicked on me after my hip replacement and knee surgery. He actually knows what he is doing, and he does not baby me. Says I am ahead of schedule. Which means by the time summer hits, I might even ditch this thing.” He holds up his cane.
“That is great.” And I mean it. “Going from walker to cane in what, a week? That is insane.”
He nods, pleased. Then he levels his gaze at me. “You better make a move on Legs before I’m back to top physical shape. Because once I’m one hundred percent again, Claudia might start looking at you like Dash Sterling does. I am not dealing with that tension in my house.”
I choke. “What?”
“You heard me.” He points the cane at me. “Make. A. Move. Before someone else does. Preferably someone with worse hair and fewer abs so I can laugh about it later.”
“She is not looking at me like that.”
He snorts. “Keep lying, champ. It’s cute. Temporary, but cute.”
I ignore him and grab the last box sitting against the wall. Time to get this stuff back to the hotel and make room for the next line to jump in.
“You sure, you don’t want the extra room at my suite? It’s empty. Quiet. Comfortable.”
He waves his hand. “I am not living in some fancy hotel like I am a washed-up Vegas magician trying to reboot my career.”
“It has a kitchenette.”
“So does a jail cell.” He counters.
“You would get maid service.”
“I have Sterling,” he deadpans.
I huff a laugh because he’s right. Dash will fawn over him. “That you do, but the offer stands.”
He taps his cane on the floor twice, smirking. “Save it. You get your head out of your ass, you might need it.”
Challenge accepted.
As soon as I get in the car, I tap out a text.
Me:
Don’t make plans for after work. I’m picking you and Savannah up today.
She doesn’t reply, and that is not a no.
The second I step into 123 Waverly, my phone buzzes with my dad’s FaceTime request, returning my message. Perfect timing, because I’m entering a construction warzone and I need an adultier adult.
I swipe to answer as I walk through the entry. “Ciao, papà.”
He squints at me from the screen, dark, greying eyebrows already pulled into his patented contractor frown. “Show me.”
No greeting. No, how are you? Just Dad. He looks good.
“Yeah, yeah.” I flip the camera and walk toward the staircase.
The whole place smells like old plaster, and the dust is thick. I should have worn a mask, I think, as I climb to the third floor, stepping over a bucket of nails and a stack of trim wrapped carefully in plastic. Men are working everywhere, pulling down old walls and piling debris,
“Santa Maria,” my dad mutters in my ear. “Tell them to be careful with that plaster crown molding; that is probably original.”
“They are saving it,” I tell him, zooming in so he can see the labeled stacks. “Paul said they are preserving everything they can.”
My dad softens. “Bene. Who is the contractor?”
“GC might be upstairs.” I weave between workers until I spot the man with a clipboard, barking orders.
“Hey,” I call. “Got a minute?”
He turns, looks me over, recognition hits, and he nods. “Sure. What’s up, Moretti?”
I hold up my phone. “My father is on the line. He builds houses back in Italy. He wants to ask a few things.”
The GC nods, “Of course.”
He takes the phone, and my dad launches right in. “How are you supporting the structure while taking down these walls? Are you replacing the joists? Have the permits cleared? And what is your plan for electrical since this place is older than both of us combined?”
The GC fires back, answers, “Old beams are still in place; whoever hacked this up into apartments didn’t bother doing it right.
The old man paid out the ass for plans, and the structural engineer approved them.
We’re reinforcing the joists on every level as we open it up.
Electricians start rough-ins next week. And all permits are supposed to be here on Monday.
We’re not doing anything against the regs since he never got permits cleared when he had this work done. ”
I look at my dad. He adjusts his glasses even though he does not need them. That is his version of nodding approval. Perfect.
“Seems fine to me,” he says. “Good crew. Good prep. They are doing it right.”
Relief hits me so hard my knees nearly buckle.
“Okay,” I exhale. “Thanks, papà.”
“Do not thank me yet. Ask for numbers. Timeline. Materials.” His eyes narrow. “Or this Paul will get taken for a ride. I raised you smarter.”
“We,” comes from behind him somewhere, Mom, “Tell our son we’ll be there for the Holidays this year.”
“You’re coming here?” I ask, confused, of course, because they never have the time.
“For a month.” She calls.
“A month?” I ask because I am sure I misheard.
Dad nods as he ends the call.
I turn back to the contractor. “I need estimates. Full breakdown. Materials, labor, contingencies. And a timeline from demo to refinishing.”
The GC nods. “Already drafting it. I will send everything to you and Paul tonight. For now, demo on three wraps tomorrow. We move to two by Friday. Everything stays structural-first. Kitchen design meeting next week.”
“Kitchen first?”
The GC laughs. “We are doing a big one. Open concept. Commercial-grade appliances. Six-burner range. Oversized island. High-end cabinets. Bronski wants a showpiece.”
I pull the SUV up to the employee exit behind the rink, anxious and excited, more than I have been since I last saw Claudia a week ago, which should not mean anything, except apparently my nervous system disagrees, because my pulse jumps when the door cracks open.
I don’t see her, not anywhere.
I grab my phone to see if I missed a call when a text comes in.
Claudia:
They let us out early. Meet me a block away at Macklin and Grove. The loading zone. Fewer eyes.
Me:
On my way.
I pull away and circle the block, the pressure in my chest building with every turn.
I knew seeing her after a week would mess with me.
I did not expect the baby to undo me this much.
Maybe it is the contrast. Claudia looking steadier.
Savannah sleeping without a worry in the world.
And me, stuck gripping a steering wheel I could probably snap in half.
When I reach the corner of Macklin and Grove, I see her.
She is standing under a dim streetlight, the carrier balanced on one hip, one hand tucked gently over the blanket.
Hood up. Shoulders straight. She’s doing everything she can for herself and her kid.
No backup. No safety net. Just grit and instinct and that soft way she hums to Savannah when she thinks nobody hears her.
Protecting her daughter without even thinking about it.
She’s protecting the goal, the ultimate goal.
I open the door, step out, round the front, and open the rear passenger side door, “I wanna kiss the hell out of you right now, but since we’re still hiding out, I’ll refrain.” I hand her the keys and take Savannah’s carrier. “You drive.”
“I’m driving?” She asks.
“I’m good, haven’t been dizzy all day, but I’d prefer you drive with Savannah.”
“Dizzy?” She asks.
Shit, I haven’t told her. “Failed VOMS. It’s—”
“I know what it is. You didn’t mention it,” she says as she walks around the vehicle and gets into the driver’s seat.
“Wasn’t a big deal,” I say as I lean in and try not to wake Savannah as we move, but she stirs, blinking herself awake, her little lashes fluttering as she seems to be trying to figure out where she is. Her eyes land on me, wide and impossibly bright.