Chapter 11 - The Blueprint of a Home
Back on Lake Shore Drive, the penthouse was undergoing a different kind of demolition.
Roman stood in the center of the grand living room wearing a pair of old denim jeans and a grey cotton t-shirt—clothes that had never seen the inside of a boardroom. Armed with a crowbar and a heavy canvas drop cloth, he was dismantling the massive, minimalist steel-and-glass shelving unit that Camille had insisted on installing against the north wall.
“Daddy, are we breaking things now?”
Jack stood in the doorway, holding a half-finished wooden pirate ship in his hands, his eyes wide with a mixture of excitement and caution.
Roman lowered the crowbar and wiped his forehead with the back of his arm. He smiled—a real, easy smile that reached the corners of his eyes. “We’re not breaking things, Jack. We’re making room.”
“Room for what?” Rosie asked, peeking out from behind her brother, clutching Mr. Hop tightly under her arm.
“Room for a couch,” Roman said, walking over and kneeling down so he was at eye level with both of them. “A big, soft, ugly couch that you’re allowed to jump on, spill juice on, and leave your blankets on without anyone yelling about property values.”
Jack blinked, processing the concept. “Can we put stickers on the coffee table?”
“As many stickers as you want,” Roman said. “And we’re getting a dog.”
Rosie let out a small gasp of pure joy. “A real dog? With floppy ears?”
“A golden retriever,” Roman promised, standing up and tossing the crowbar onto the drop cloth with a heavy clatter. “The kind of dog that sheds hair all over the carpets and doesn't care about business meetings.”
For the first time in five years, the heavy, oppressive silence of the penthouse seemed to lift, replaced by the chaotic, beautiful noise of children running down a hallway without looking over their shoulders to see if they were stepping out of line.
Later that evening, after the kids were finally asleep in their beds—with their bedroom doors wide open and a nightlight glowing in the hallway—Roman sat at the kitchen island with a cup of black coffee. His phone buzzed. It wasn't an encrypted text or a threat from the docks.
It was an email from an unlisted address routed through a server in Minneapolis.
The rent is paid for three years. The apartment is near the park. The coffee shop downstairs makes a decent croissant, though it’s not quite as good as the ones on Michigan Avenue.
- N.
Roman stared at the screen for a long time. He didn't reply. He simply closed the laptop, walked over to the floor-to-ceiling window, and looked out over the dark, restless expanse of Lake Michigan.
May you like
The city lights twinkled in the distance like distant campfires, beautiful and untouchable. But for the first time, he didn't feel like he was standing on the outside looking in, or on the inside looking down.
He was just standing in his home.
