Chapter 7
The cellar doors closed with a dull, subterranean thud that resonated through the floorboards.
The ballroom fell into an eerie, church-like quiet. The clean white daylight began to shift, taking on the cool, sharp blue of late afternoon as the sun dipped behind the western tree line across the water.
Nola remained seated on the bottom step of the grand staircase.
She had gathered all the white batting she could find on the carpet. With intense, three-year-old concentration, she had stuffed it all back into the hollow fabric of the rabbit. The toy was lumpy, misshapen, its navy seam gaping open, but it possessed the rough silhouette of an animal once more.
She held it up with both hands as Lachlan walked back toward her.
"I fixed it, Grandpa," she whispered, her hazel eyes searching his face for approval. "See? He’s not trash anymore."
Lachlan stopped at the base of the stairs.
He looked at the lumpy, hand-stitched rabbit made from Clara’s scarf. He saw the uneven navy stitches the child had placed with a blunt plastic needle, guided by her kindergarten teacher. He saw the faded forget-me-nots that had once brushed against his wife’s throat on cold October mornings.
Slowly, the veteran mafia boss sank down onto the bottom step beside his granddaughter.
He didn't care about the crease in his trousers, nor the bloodstain on the cuff of his dress shirt. He sat beside her, his broad shoulder brushing her small periwinkle cardigan, his massive hands resting on his knees.
"You did a very good job, little bird," Lachlan said, his voice softer than anyone in the syndicate had ever heard it. "He looks very brave."
Nola leaned her head against his bicep, her small frame relaxing as the terror of the afternoon began to recede into child-exhaustion. "Auntie Ottoline said I wasn't allowed to give it to you."
"Auntie Ottoline was wrong," Lachlan said. "It is the best gift I have ever received."
He reached out and gently took the rabbit from her hands. He turned it over, examining the frayed edges of the torn seam.
From his waistcoat pocket, Lachlan pulled out a small silver pocketknife. With a flick of his thumb, he extended a thin, needle-like awl from the casing. He had not stitched fabric since his days running supply lines through the Brooklyn docks in the early eighties, but his hands were steady, precise, and patient.
He gathered the loose navy thread, threaded it through the eye of the awl, and began to pull the torn edges of the silk together, closing the rabbit’s belly with tight, surgical knots.
"Grandpa?" Nola asked, watching the glint of the silver tool.
"Yes, sweetheart?"
"Is Daddy going on an airplane?"
Lachlan paused for half a second, his fingers never trembling. "Your father is going away for a long time, Nola."
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"Did he do something bad?"
"Yes," Lachlan said. "He forgot who he was."
