Chapter 6 - The Golden Sunlight
Six months later.
The early summer sun poured through the high arching glass windows of the estate's rear patio, painting the green lawns and the distant blue waves of the Atlantic in brilliant gold.
The heavy dark velvet curtains in my private study were gone, replaced by light, airy white drapes that fluttered gently in the sea breeze.
On the lawn, fifty yards away, Matteo was sitting in his lightweight sporting wheelchair—a sleek, custom red model designed for speed and maneuverability. Beside him stood Clara Hayes, wearing a bright yellow sundress instead of her faded navy trench coat. She was holding a small leather baseball glove.
Matteo wound back his arm and threw a smooth, accurate curveball straight into Clara’s mitt with a loud, satisfying SNAP!
"Better!" Clara called out, tossing the ball back to him. "Twist your shoulders more on the release! You're throwing like a line cook!"
Matteo let out a loud, ringing laugh—a sound so bright and free that it swept through the open patio doors and filled every corner of my home.
"I throw better than you do!" Matteo yelled back, his voice crisp and strong.
I stood on the patio, holding two glasses of fresh lemonade.
I walked down the stone steps onto the soft green grass. Dominic was standing near the perimeter garden, wearing slacks and a polo shirt instead of his dark tactical suit, quietly reading a newspaper in the sun. The armed guards were still there—hidden discrete in the tree line—but the estate no longer felt like a tomb. It felt like a home.
"Here," I said, handing one of the glasses to Clara as I approached.
"Thanks, boss," she said with a grin, taking a long sip.
"I told you to stop calling me boss," I reminded her with a faint smile. "You're the head of Matteo's permanent care and education team now. You earn more than my chief financial officer."
"Force of habit, Vincent," she replied, her gray eyes sparkling with light.
I walked over to Matteo. He pulled his wheelchair to a stop beside me, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead with the back of his sleeve. His arms had grown strong over the past six months, his shoulders broadening from daily physical therapy and swimming sessions in the heated pool.
"Dad," Matteo said, looking up at me.
"Yeah, buddy?"
"Clara says we can go to the coast next weekend," he said, his dark eyes shining with excitement. "She says there’s a adaptive surfing program in Maine that teaches kids with spinal injuries how to ride the waves."
I felt a warm, incredible swell of pride rise up in my chest. I reached down, and this time, I didn't hesitate. I placed my large hand on his shoulder, pulling him into a firm, loving side-hug.
"If Clara says you're ready," I said softly, "then we're going."
Matteo leaned into my side, resting his head against my hip for a long, quiet moment.
"Thanks, Dad," he whispered.
I looked up at the bright blue sky, at the sun shining down on the green grass, at the woman who had risked everything to save my family, and at the strong, resilient boy sitting beside me.
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The hidden cameras were still in the house. But when I looked at the monitors in my control room now, I didn't look for assassins, thieves, or traitors.
I looked at my son living his life. And for the first time in fourteen months, I knew that we were finally going to be okay.
