Chapter 4 - The Sound of a Beating Heart
Vincent’s bedroom was vast, dim, and smelled heavily of cedar, leather, and old paper.
In the center of the room sat a massive four-poster bed made of hand-hewn logs. Sitting in the middle of the dark wool blanket was a small wicker crib lined with soft white sheepskin.
Inside the crib, ten-month-old Lily was whimpering.
Her face was flushed a deep, painful red, her tiny blonde curls damp with sweat. Her small fists were clutched tightly against her chest, her head turning frantically from side to side as she let out short, raspy cries of pure misery.
I rushed to the crib, dropping to my knees beside it.
I placed the back of my hand against her forehead. She was burning hot.
Vincent entered the room behind me, his heavy footsteps quiet against the thick Persian rug. He stood at the foot of the bed, his hands clutched tightly at his sides, looking entirely helpless.
“I gave her infant Tylenol an hour ago,” he said, his voice strained, raw. “It’s not breaking.”
“Her body is fighting an infection,” I said quickly, assessing the child. “Tylenol takes time, but she’s overheated under these heavy wool blankets. We need to cool her skin gradually.”
I stood up, turning to him. “I need a bowl of lukewarm water—not cold, lukewarm—two clean cotton washcloths, and a bottle of olive oil from the kitchen.”
Vincent blinked. “Olive oil?”
“Do you want her ear to stop aching tonight, or do you want to debate my methods?” I demanded sharpely.
He turned on his heel and disappeared toward the hall.
While he was gone, I gently lifted Lily from the crib. She let out a sharp scream as the movement jostled her infected left ear.
“Shh, sweet girl,” I cooed softly, pressing her small body against my chest. I sat down on the edge of Vincent’s massive bed, rocking her rhythmically. “I know. I know it hurts. Shh…”
She buried her wet, hot face into the crook of my neck, her tiny fingers clutching the collar of my wool sweater with surprising strength.
Vincent returned two minutes later carrying a silver washbasin, towels, and a small glass jar of olive oil. He set them on the nightstand beside the bed.
“Hold her,” I told him, standing up.
He hesitated, looking at his small, screaming daughter as if she were made of spun glass. “Claire, I might hurt her—”
“Vincent,” I said, my voice firm, leaving no room for argument. “Sit on the bed. Hold her firmly against your chest so she doesn't turn her head while I work.”
He swallowed hard, sat on the edge of the mattress, and took the baby into his massive arms. His big hands covered almost her entire back, his face pale with anxiety.
I took one of the washcloths, dipped it into the warm water, wrung it out, and began gently wiping Lily’s face, neck, and small sweaty arms.
“Good girl,” I murmured as her cries slowed from frantic screams to ragged gasps.
Next, I picked up the jar of olive oil. I poured a small drop onto my finger, warmed it between my palms, and gently applied it to the tender, swollen skin behind her left earlobe, massaging the lymph nodes in slow, downward strokes.
“My mother taught me this,” I explained softly, my eyes fixed on the baby. “Warm oil opens the localized vessels and eases the pressure behind the eardrum. It won't cure the bacteria, but it will stop the sharp pain long enough for her to rest.”
Vincent didn't say a word. He sat motionless, his gray eyes fixed on my hands as I worked.
Gradually, miraculously, Lily’s whimpering ceased.
The soft, warm strokes behind her ear, combined with the gradual cooling of her skin, relaxed her tiny muscles. Her heavy eyelids fluttered, her breathing slowing down from jagged gasps to long, deep sighs.
Five minutes later, her head dropped heavily against Vincent’s chest. Her eyes closed.
She was fast asleep.
The room fell into a profound, heavy silence, broken only by the crackle of the wood stove in the corner and the sound of the wind whipping around the exterior logs.
Vincent looked down at his daughter. He didn't move an inch, terrified that the slightest movement would wake her.
“You can put her down now,” I whispered gently, reaching out to take her.
“No,” Vincent rasped.
I paused, looking at his face.
His head was bowed over the sleeping baby. His broad shoulders, usually squared and rigid like iron, were slouched forward. A single tear—heavy, silent—slid down his dark cheek, catching the dim lamplight before disappearing into his stubble.
“Vincent?” I murmured softly.
“She hasn't slept more than twenty minutes at a time since Tuesday,” he whispered, his voice cracking, raw with a pain he had hidden from the world for three years. “I thought… I thought I was going to lose her, too.”
My heart tore open inside my chest.
All the dark rumors, the whispers of mafia connections, the terrifying reputation of the master of Blackwood Ridge—it all evaporated in the warm, dim light of that bedroom.
Sitting before me wasn't a monster. He was a broken, terrified father who was drowning in grief, trying to hold together five fragile lives with hands that only knew how to fight.
Without thinking, I sat down on the mattress beside him.
I didn't take the baby. I reached out and laid my hand gently over his massive, calloused hand where it rested against Lily’s back.
His hand was freezing.
“You’re not going to lose her, Vincent,” I said softly, my voice trembling with an emotion I couldn't name. “I won't let you.”
Vincent turned his head slowly.
Our faces were inches apart in the dark room. I could see the tiny flecks of gold in his pale gray eyes, smell the scent of cedar and pine clinging to his skin, feel the intense, radiating heat of his body.
He looked down at my hand covering his.
His fingers shifted, turning over so his wide palm met mine. His long, rough fingers closed around my hand—not with violence, but with a slow, desperate pressure, as if he were a drowning man grabbing a beam of solid wood.
“Why did you come, Claire?” he asked, his gray eyes searching my face with a terrifying intensity. “Why did you really come up this mountain?”
I looked at him, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.
“Because you looked at my hands,” I whispered honestly. “Everyone else in my life looked at what was broken inside me. You just asked if I was ready to work.”
Vincent’s grip on my hand tightened slightly. He lowered his forehead until it almost touched mine, his deep, ragged breath warm against my lips.
“I don't know how to be a husband, Claire,” he rasped into the quiet air. “I don't know how to make speeches, or buy flowers, or pretend the world is soft.”
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“I don't need soft, Vincent,” I replied softly, my thumb gently sliding across his scarred knuckles. “I just need real.”
We sat together on that heavy bed in the dark room for an hour, the baby sleeping peacefully between us, our hands locked tight against the storm raging outside.
