Chapter 12 - THE GUN IN SOPHIA’S PURSE
Z
Sophia surrendered at 2:31 in the morning.
Or pretended to.
Police arrived before Vincent went downstairs.
That was my condition.
He hated it.
I didn’t care.
Sophia stood in the penthouse lobby with both hands visible.
She looked exhausted.
Thin.
Almost ordinary.
Nothing like the glamorous woman who once entered my home wearing shoes I was too afraid to wear on Vincent’s carpets.
A female officer searched her.
Nothing.
No gun.
No knife.
No phone.
Sophia smiled.
“I told you. I’m done.”
They handcuffed her anyway.
Vincent watched from across the lobby.
I stayed upstairs with Isabella.
Sophia’s first request was to speak privately with Vincent.
He refused.
Her second was to speak with me.
I laughed when the detective asked.
“No.”
Sophia insisted she had information about Marco Ricci.
About missing money.
About people who still wanted the ledger.
She offered everything in exchange for protection.
The prosecutor would decide whether any deal existed.
Not Vincent.
That mattered to me.
By sunrise, Sophia was in custody.
For the first time in weeks, I breathed.
Then detectives searched the vehicle that brought her to the building.
A stolen sedan.
Inside the trunk, they found cash.
Fake identification.
Three phones.
And a handgun.
Not in her purse.
Hidden beneath the spare tire.
The serial number had been filed off.
Sophia claimed it wasn’t hers.
Nobody believed her.
The next shock came at noon.
The gun was linked to a shooting six months earlier involving one of Marco Ricci’s men.
Sophia had gone from manipulative childhood friend to potential federal witness to criminal defendant in less than a day.
Vincent visited her once.
I knew because he told me.
“You didn’t need permission,” I said.
“I know.”
“Then why tell me?”
“Because I don’t want secrets between us.”
“We’re divorcing.”
“We’re still Isabella’s parents.”
Fair.
“What did she say?”
Vincent sat at the kitchen counter.
“She cried.”
“Real tears?”
“I don’t know anymore.”
“And?”
“She said she loved me.”
My stomach tightened despite myself.
“What did you say?”
“That whatever she loved wasn’t me.”
I looked at him.
He continued.
“She loved the version of me who never told her no.”
“And did you love the version of me who never told you no?”
The question surprised both of us.
Vincent took his time.
“Yes.”
Pain crossed my chest.
Then he continued.
“And I think that’s why I almost lost you.”
I looked down.
“Claire, I loved your kindness. Your patience. The way you made our house feel less empty.”
His voice softened.
“But I exploited those things too.”
I swallowed.
“I made your goodness convenient for me.”
That was perhaps the most accurate description of our marriage anyone had ever given.
A week later, I signed the final settlement.
No dramatic fortune battle.
No revenge.
I took what legally belonged to me.
A substantial financial settlement.
Shared ownership interest in several businesses that had been gifted during the marriage.
Primary residential custody of Isabella.
Vincent received generous parenting time once she was medically cleared.
There was one clause he requested.
Neither parent could introduce a romantic partner to Isabella without discussing it with the other first.
I stared at him.
“Planning ahead?”
His face darkened.
“No.”
“Then why?”
“Because after Sophia, I don’t trust my judgment.”
It was sad enough that I didn’t tease him.
The divorce became final four months after Isabella’s birth.
Elena called me from the courthouse.
“It’s done.”
I sat on the couch holding my sleeping daughter.
“Done?”
“Legally, yes.”
I expected relief.
I got it.
But grief came too.
Five years of marriage did not disappear because a judge signed paper.
There had been good moments.
A trip to Maine where Vincent actually laughed when rain ruined our picnic.
Christmas mornings.
The night he danced with me barefoot in our kitchen before becoming obsessed with keeping that kitchen perfect.
The first year, before power and habit swallowed everything softer between us.
I cried quietly.
Then someone knocked.
Vincent.
He had come for Isabella.
When I opened the door, he knew.
“Elena called?”
“Yes.”
He stood there for a moment.
“So we’re divorced.”
“Yes.”
His eyes became wet.
But he smiled faintly.
“Congratulations.”
I nearly laughed through my tears.
“That’s a terrible thing to say.”
“I’m trying to respect what you wanted.”
“I know.”
He looked at me.
“I’m sorry our marriage had to end for me to learn how to love you.”
My throat tightened.
“Vincent…”
“I’m not asking for anything.”
Good.
Because I had nothing to offer.
Not yet.
Maybe never.
I handed him Isabella’s diaper bag.
“She ate an hour ago.”
“Okay.”
“Medication at six.”
“I know.”
“Her extra pacifier is—”
“Side pocket.”
I narrowed my eyes.
“You studied.”
“I’m terrifyingly competent.”
“You put her diaper on backward last week.”
“It was dark.”
“It was noon.”
He almost smiled.
Then he took Isabella.
She settled against his chest instantly.
He looked down at her as if she were the only innocent thing he had ever touched.
Before leaving, Vincent glanced at me.
“Claire?”
“Yes?”
“I’m going legitimate.”
I stared at him.
“Completely?”
“As much as a man like me can.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I spent four months cutting ties.”
His expression hardened.
“Some people don’t like it.”
“Are you safe?”
“For now.”
Again, the answer frightened me.
“Why are you doing it?”
He looked at Isabella.
Then back at me.
“Because one day she’s going to ask what kind of man her father was.”
May you like
His voice dropped.
“And I want the answer to be different from the one I would have given the night she was born.”
