Chapter 8 - Burn the House Down
Celeste did not run.
She went home.
Not to her home.
To Vincent’s.
By the time they reached the penthouse, smoke was pouring from the upper floors.
Vincent stopped in the street.
Fire reflected in his eyes.
His body locked.
Nora felt his hand go cold.
“Vincent.”
He could not answer.
Eleven years vanished.
The burning lake house returned.
Nora stepped in front of him.
“Look at me.”
His breathing became ragged.
“Vincent.”
His eyes finally found hers.
“This is not that night.”
Firefighters rushed past.
“This is Chicago. It’s snowing. I’m standing in front of you.”
His fingers closed around hers.
“You are not trapped.”
His breathing slowed.
Then Caleb ran toward them.
“Eli was upstairs.”
Nora’s blood turned to ice.
“What?”
“He came to pick up your college boxes.”
She ran.
Vincent caught her.
“No.”
“My brother is inside!”
“The firefighters—”
An explosion shattered an upper window.
Nora screamed Eli’s name.
Vincent looked at the building.
Fire.
Everything inside him recoiled.
Then he looked at Nora.
He removed his coat.
“Stay here.”
Her eyes widened.
“No.”
But he was already moving.
Caleb tried to stop him.
Vincent pushed past.
For eleven years, fire had controlled his life.
Tonight, he walked into it.
Smoke filled the stairwell.
Every nerve along Vincent’s scars screamed.
His lungs remembered.
His body remembered.
But another memory was stronger.
A twenty-year-old woman dragging him across wet grass.
You’re not dying tonight.
Vincent climbed.
He found Eli on the thirty-seventh floor beneath a fallen beam.
“Vincent?”
“Disappointed?”
“I was hoping for Batman.”
Vincent almost laughed.
Together they moved the beam.
Eli could walk.
As they reached the stairwell, a woman appeared through the smoke.
Celeste.
She held a gun.
“You always were difficult to kill.”
Vincent stepped in front of Eli.
Celeste smiled.
“You chose her.”
“No.”
Her expression changed.
Vincent looked at the flames.
“She taught me I could choose myself.”
Celeste raised the gun.
A firefighter’s hose blasted through the corridor.
The water knocked her sideways.
Her weapon disappeared into the smoke.
Vincent grabbed Eli.
They descended.
Outside, Nora saw them emerge.
She ran.
Eli barely had time to move before Nora collided with him.
Then she turned to Vincent.
His face was streaked with soot.
His hands were burned.
But he was standing.
“You went into a burning building.”
“So did you.”
“Eleven years ago.”
“I was returning the favor.”
Nora began crying.
Vincent pulled her against him.
He did not care that hundreds of people were watching.
He held her.
Firefighters brought Celeste out minutes later.
Alive.
Handcuffed.
This time, Vincent watched without trembling.
She looked at him.
“You think she fixed you?”
Vincent glanced at Nora.
“No.”
Then back at Celeste.
“She reminded me I was never yours to break.”
Celeste was taken away.
The penthouse was badly damaged.
Most possessions were destroyed.
The books.
The furniture.
The remnants of Vincent’s old life.
At dawn, he stood across the street watching smoke rise.
Nora joined him.
“I’m sorry.”
He shook his head.
“I’m not.”
She looked at him.
“It was a beautiful home.”
“It was a fortress.”
He took her hand.
“I’m tired of fortresses.”
Three weeks later, Celeste pleaded guilty to multiple federal charges after investigators connected her to the shooting, kidnapping, arson, and Grant’s murder.
Her remaining network collapsed.
Vincent cooperated with authorities.
That decision shocked Chicago almost as much as Nora’s sudden role at Mercer Holdings.
He began dismantling the illegal portions of his organization.
It cost money.
Enemies.
Influence.
Vincent did it anyway.
One evening, Caleb found him packing files.
“You know people are going to say Nora changed you.”
Vincent looked up.
“She didn’t.”
Caleb raised an eyebrow.
Vincent closed the box.
“She made me want to change myself.”
That spring, Vincent began trauma therapy.
The first session lasted fourteen minutes.
The second lasted twenty-eight.
By the tenth, he allowed the therapist to shake his hand.
He called Nora immediately afterward.
“You did what?”
“I shook his hand.”
She went silent.
Vincent frowned.
“Nora?”
“I’m proud of you.”
Those four words meant more to him than every title he had ever possessed.
Months passed.
Vincent learned touch again.
A handshake.
A barber trimming his hair.
A doctor examining his scars.
Caleb clapping his shoulder.
Each small contact reclaimed territory fear had stolen.
But Nora remained different.
Her touch was home.
One evening, they stood beside Lake Michigan watching the sunset.
Vincent handed her a small box.
Nora froze.
“If that’s a ring, I’m throwing you into the lake.”
He blinked.
“Why?”
“We’ve been dating six months.”
“I know.”
“You cannot go from eleven years of isolation to marriage in six months.”
Vincent looked offended.
“I had a speech.”
Nora laughed.
“Open it.”
Inside was not a ring.
It was a key.
“To what?”
“A house.”
She stared at him.
“I bought a place.”
“Another fortress?”
“No gates.”
“No armed men?”
“Caleb complained.”
“Vincent.”
He smiled.
“It has a garden.”
Nora’s eyes softened.
“And?”
“A room Eli can use.”
“And?”
“A library.”
“Of course.”
“And a kitchen large enough for you to criticize my cooking.”
“You don’t cook.”
“Exactly.”
She laughed.
Vincent took her hand.
“I’m not asking you to marry me.”
“Good.”
“I’m asking whether you’d like to make somewhere feel like home with me.”
Nora stared at the key.
Then at him.
“Yes.”
Vincent kissed her.
Neither noticed Caleb standing twenty yards away.
Nor did they see the man approaching him with an envelope.
Caleb opened it.
His expression changed.
Inside was a photograph.
Vincent’s father.
May you like
Alive.
Taken three days earlier.
