Chapter 6 - The Thanksgiving TableBy late November, the first heavy snow of the winter began falling softly over Chicago, covering the city in a blanket of clean, quiet white.
The conflict with Victor Moretti had ended with absolute, swift finality. After attempting to sabotage a Hartwell shipping terminal three days after the incident at the archive, Moretti’s primary investors abandoned him, his commercial licenses were revoked by the city, and his operations were completely absorbed by Gabriel’s corporate network.
On a warm Thursday afternoon, my small third-floor apartment in Lincoln Park was filled with the divine, savory scents of roasting turkey, buttered mashed potatoes, green beans, and fresh pumpkin pie.
Sitting at our small wooden dining table was seven-year-old Eli, wearing his new navy sweater, happily showing a set of vintage hand-drawn maritime maps to the man sitting beside him.
Gabriel sat at our small table in his dark trousers and a soft gray cashmere sweater, his sleeves rolled up, listening to Eli explain how pirates used compass rose markings with absolute, genuine patience and delight.
"And this star right here," Eli explained proudly, pointing a chubby finger at the parchment, "that means the water is deep enough for big ships!"
"Is that right?" Gabriel smiled warmly, gently ruffling Eli's dark curls. "You know, Eli, I have a real sixteenth-century compass at my house. Maybe you and your mother can come see it this weekend."
Eli’s eyes widened into huge, excited circles. "Can I hold it?!"
"If you eat all your potatoes first," Gabriel teased softly.
Eli immediately picked up his fork and began eating with hilarious speed, making Gabriel and me burst into low, genuine laughter.
I set a warm platter of rolls on the table, sitting down beside Gabriel.
He reached under the tablecloth, his broad, warm hand finding mine, his fingers intertwining with my fingers in a tight, unshakeable hold.
I looked at him—taking in his warm smile, his sharp jawline, and the calm, weightless peace that surrounded our little dining room.
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Two months ago, I had sat in a hotel kitchen with eleven dollars in my bank account, begging for a container of leftover chicken to keep my child fed.
Today, sitting in the warmth of my own home, holding the hand of the most feared man in Chicago, I knew that my son and I were safe forever.
