Chapter 39
The sound of the biometric safe clicking shut is my new favorite sound. Click-zzzt.
I used to feel relief taking the gun out of the safe each morning.
The weight of metal against my side was my only guarantee I'd survive until sunset.
Now, the relief comes from putting it away at night.
I placed the Glock on the velvet shelf, next to Solaia's silver Sig Sauer—which spent far more time resting than being used these days.
I closed the steel door hidden behind a walnut panel in my office.
I took a deep breath. The air didn't smell of tension. It didn't smell of cold coffee and imminent divorce papers. It smelled of sautéed garlic, basil, and turpentine. A combination that would give any minimalist architect an aneurysm, but to me, it smelled like victory.
I loosened my tie as I left the office. The hallway, once a sterile landing strip of concrete and recessed lighting, now had life.
An antique Persian rug—colorful, worn, magnificent—covered the cold floor.
On the walls, where there had been nothing before, charcoal sketches now hung: anatomy studies and abstract landscapes of Chicago in the rain.
Her work. The private gallery I refused to sell, no matter how many offers the Varro-D'Angelo Foundation received. What she painted here, stayed here.
I reached the living room. I stopped and leaned against the doorframe, crossing my arms, allowing myself a moment of pure observation.
The room was organized chaos. My black leather sofa was still there, but now coexisted—in a surprising aesthetic truce—with the infamous pink velvet sofa.
Throws lay tossed about, art books stacked on the glass coffee table, and a turntable played soft jazz, something slow and melancholic by Chet Baker.
And at the center of it all was Solaia.
She had her back to me, standing before a tall easel set up near the panoramic window.
Rain fell outside, thick and gray, washing the city, but in here, the warm light from the lamps created a golden bubble.
Solaia wore one of my old dress shirts—which was now officially hers—splattered with paint in every color of the spectrum.
She was barefoot, humming softly along with the music, attacking the canvas with a palette knife.
She looked like a conductor leading a silent orchestra of colors.
There was a smudge of blue paint on her calf.
Another, yellow, on her neck. Six months ago, this scene would have given me an ulcer.
I would have seen dirt, disorder, disrespect for my property.
Today, I saw the only thing that made sense in my entire life.
I took a step forward. Solaia spun around, startled, palette knife in hand like a weapon.
When she saw me, her face lit up with a smile that made my chest ache.
“You're home early!” she exclaimed. “I lost track of time. The ragù has been on low heat for three hours—it must be falling apart by now—but I needed to finish this light before…”
She stopped talking and ran to me. I didn't have time to warn her. I didn't have time to say “watch the suit.” And honestly, I didn't want to.
She threw herself into my arms. I caught her by the waist, lifting her off the floor, and she wrapped her legs around me, burying her face in my neck. “Hi, monster,” she whispered against my skin.
“Hi, disaster,” I replied, kissing her shoulder through the stained shirt.
She pulled back a little to look at my face, and that's when she noticed. Her hands, covered in cobalt-blue and crimson-red oil paint, were pressed flat against the back of my five-thousand-dollar Italian wool suit. She had just transformed my jacket into a piece of modern art.
Solaia's eyes went wide as she looked at her hands, then at my clothes. “Oh no… Cassian! Your suit! I forgot my hands were covered in paint!”
She tried to pull away, horrified. “Put me down, let me get some solvent, maybe we can save it if we act fast… I'm such an idiot…”
I tightened my embrace, keeping her from getting down. “Solaia.”
“It's cashmere and wool! The tailor is going to kill me!”
“Solaia,” I repeated, my voice calm and low. “Look at me.”
She stopped struggling and looked. There was genuine guilt in her eyes. The old Solaia, the girl who'd been afraid of making mistakes around her father or her rigid husband, still surfaced in these small moments.
I smiled at her. Not the predatory smile. The smile only she knew. “It's just a suit. I have twenty others.”
“But you hate dirt. You hate mess.”
I brought a hand to her face, my thumb picking up a streak of paint from her cheek. “I hated the emptiness,” I corrected. “I thought it was cleanliness, but it was just a vacuum. This…” I looked at the blue stain on my lapel. “This is proof of life.”
Her eyes welled up. She was emotional. Always had been. But now, the tears weren't from sadness. “You've gone soft, Varro,” she accused, sniffling. “The Ice melted and turned into a sentimental puddle.”
“Don't tell anyone. It would ruin my reputation.”
I kissed her. She tasted of red wine—which she'd probably been drinking while she painted—and happiness. I set her down but didn't let her go. I took off the ruined jacket and tossed it over the back of the pink sofa. The contrast of the dark, stained fabric against the vibrant velvet was perfect.
“How was your day?” she asked, returning to the easel to clean her palette knives while I rolled up my sleeves.
“Productive. The merger with the northern logistics companies was signed. The Foundation received that donation from the senator you charmed last week.” I walked over to her, wrapping my arms around her from behind and resting my chin on top of her head.
“And I didn’t have to kill anyone. An excellent day. ”
She laughed, leaning back against me. “A boring day, you mean. Do you miss the adrenaline?”
I looked at the canvas she was painting.
It was an abstract representation of the two of us.
Dark and light forms intertwining, chaos and order merging into something new.
“No,” I answered honestly. “Adrenaline is addictive, but peace... peace sustains. I spent my whole life looking over my shoulder, Sol. It’s good to finally look forward. ”
She set down her tools and turned in my arms. The afternoon light was dying, and the rain outside was picking up, hammering against the glass. We were on top of the world, inside our glass box, warm and safe.
Solaia’s expression turned serious. She bit her lower lip, a nervous tic I knew well. “What is it?” I asked, sensing the shift in her energy. “Did the ragu burn?”
“No. Dinner’s fine.”
“Then?”
She took my right hand. The hand that had held guns, that had signed death sentences, that had pulled her out of a burning basement. She placed it over her belly. It was flat, firm beneath the loose shirt. But her hand pressed mine down with unmistakable intent.
I froze. The world stopped. The sound of the rain disappeared. The jazz disappeared. I looked at her. Solaia’s eyes were wide, dark, searching my face with a mixture of fear and hope.
“You...” My voice failed. I had to clear my throat. “Are you sure?”
She nodded slowly. “I took the test this morning. Three times. Just to be sure.”
I felt dizzy. Me, Cassian Varro. A father. The idea was absurd. I was raised to be a tool, not a creator. I was made to end bloodlines, not start one. My father died in front of me. Her father spent his life manipulating hers. What kind of father would I be?
Cold fear tried to settle in my stomach. Fear of failing. Fear that the world was too dangerous for something so small.
Solaia saw the fear. She pressed my hand against her belly. “Hey,” she whispered. “I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking about the Kovacs. About enemies. About threats.”
“I have a lot of enemies, Solaia.”
“They’re dead or afraid of you.” She smiled, ferocity gleaming in her eyes. “And we’re a fortress, remember? Marble and blood. Nothing gets through us.”
I looked at my hand on her belly. I imagined something growing there. A mixture of my contained chaos and her light. It wasn’t a weakness. It was a legacy. Vittorio wanted an empire of power. I would have an empire of life.
I knelt on the floor, ignoring the paint that would probably stain my pants. I wrapped my arms around her waist, pressing my face against her still-flat stomach. The smell of paint and her warmth enveloped me.
“I swear,” I whispered against the fabric of her shirt.
It wasn’t an oath made to a dying old man in exchange for power.
It was an oath made to the life growing inside her.
“I swear this world will never touch him. Or her. I’ll build higher walls.
I’ll be the monster under the bed so this child never has to be afraid of monsters. ”
I felt Solaia’s hands in my hair, gently caressing. “You won’t be the monster, Cassian,” she said, her voice thick with emotion. “You’ll be the father neither of us ever had. The father who stays.”
I stood and kissed her. It was a slow, deep kiss that tasted of forever. Outside, Chicago’s storm raged on. But here inside, on the fiftieth floor, surrounded by paints, ragu, and mismatched furniture, time seemed to have stopped just for us.
Solaia pulled back slightly, smiling with tears in her eyes. “We have a problem, though.”
“What?”
She looked around the room. “This apartment. It’s too... concrete and glass. Not exactly a place for a baby to crawl around.”
I looked at my minimalist sanctuary, now invaded by life. I loved this place. It was the symbol of my rise. But looking at Solaia, thinking about the future... it felt small.
“We’ll move,” I said without hesitation.
“Seriously? You love this view.”
“I love what’s inside these walls, not what’s outside.” I took her hand. “We’ll buy a house. With a yard. High walls, of course. Military-grade security. But... grass. And trees.”
Solaia laughed. “And a studio?”
“And a studio. And a swing. And whatever else you want.”
We walked to the window, arms around each other, watching the city below. The lights sparkled in the rain like scattered diamonds. The city was mine. The power was mine. But the true wealth was here, in the warmth of her body against mine.
The cold man had died. And the man who took his place was ready to start living.