Chapter 12: Vince's Visit
The garage door rattled shut behind Vince’s Charger, cutting off the growl of the engine. Dom stood in the sudden quiet, the oil-stained rag still in his hand. The scent of burnt rubber and Vince’s cheap cologne lingered. You got that look. He rubbed a hand over his jaw, feeling the smile he hadn’t been able to wipe away. It felt strange, having that part of his life seen, even obliquely. Not shame. Never that. But a possessive tightness in his chest, like he’d just shown a rival the blueprint to his most guarded secret.
He threw the rag onto the workbench. The doctor’s words, clinical and precise, echoed in the space Vince’s laughter had left. Forty-eight-hour window. A timetable. A mission parameter. He’d executed countless plans with tighter margins.
The interior door to the house was ajar. A slant of warm, late-afternoon light cut across the concrete floor, illuminating motes of dust dancing in the air. He could hear the faint hum of the refrigerator, the creak of the old house settling. And beneath that, a quiet, waiting silence.
He pushed the door open.
The living room was bathed in amber. She was on the couch, just as he’d known she would be. Curled on her side, his old, gray tee-shirt riding high on her thighs. The fabric was thin from a hundred washes, clinging to the swell of her hip, the curve of her breast. Her dark hair fanned out against a cushion. She wasn’t asleep. Her eyes, deep and dark as rich earth, watched him enter, tracking his every movement from the threshold to the center of the room.
“He knew,” she said. Her voice was a low thrum, no question in it.
Dom didn’t answer immediately. He stood there, letting the sight of her sink in, replace Vince’s knowing grin. “He knew I was happy,” Dom corrected, his own voice gravel-rough. “Didn’t know why.”
“Does it matter?” She uncurled, stretching like a cat. The hem of the shirt crept higher. “He’s family.”
“It matters.” He finally moved, crossing to her. He placed a knee on the couch cushions, caging her in, one large hand planting on the back of the sofa beside her head. He leaned down, inhaling the scent of her skin—lavender soap and something uniquely Izzy. “This is ours. Not his. Not anyone’s.”
She reached up, her fingers tracing the line of his goatee, then sliding to the back of his neck, pulling him down. “It’s just us right now,” she whispered against his lips. “The clock’s ticking, remember? We’re burning daylight.”
He kissed her then, deep and consuming. It wasn’t like the frenzied coupling they’d lost themselves in last night, all desperate heat and celebrating the news. This was slower, deliberate. A conscious alignment. When he broke the kiss, he rested his forehead against hers, their breath mingling. “We do this right,” he murmured. “Not just… we follow the plan.”
Izzy’s lips curved. “Since when do you follow a plan so close, Daddy? You usually bend ‘em.”
“Not for this.” He pulled back just enough to look into her eyes. “For this, I follow the manual. To the letter.” His hand, which had been braced on the sofa, moved to her belly, his touch impossibly gentle through the thin cotton. “This is the build of our lives, Izzy. No shortcuts.”
Her playfulness softened into something more vulnerable, more open. She covered his hand with hers. “Then what’s step one?”
“Step one,” he said, shifting to sit beside her, pulling her into his lap so she straddled him. He brushed her hair back from her face. “Is we don’t rush. We don’t treat it like a job. The doc said stress is no good.” He smirked, a flash of his usual self. “Said relaxation was key.”
Izzy laughed, a real, warm sound that filled the room. She rolled her hips against him, feeling his instant, solid response through his jeans. “You? Relaxed? You’ve got a blueprint in your head right now, don’t you?”
“Maybe.” His hands slid under the shirt, palms warm and broad on the bare skin of her back. “A good one. One where I take my time with you. Where we don’t even think about the why. Just the how.”
He stood up with her in his arms, her legs wrapping around his waist as easily as they had when she was a child seeking comfort. But this was different. This was all woman, all heat and intention. He carried her not to the bedroom, but back into the garage, into that pool of golden light.
He set her down gently on the warmed hood of the finished ‘69 Charger, the paint job a flawless deep green. “Here?” she asked, eyebrows raised, a thrill in her voice.
“Here,” he said, peeling the old tee-shirt up and over her head. The setting sun painted her skin in hues of honey and gold. “Where I’m at home. Where I know what I’m doing.”
The next hour was a study in controlled intensity. He was everywhere at once, his mouth, his hands, mapping her with a reverence that was both new and familiar. He followed no rhythm but the one she dictated with her gasps and the arch of her back against the cool metal. He remembered the doctor’s sterile advice about angles and elevation and used the curve of the car’s hood to his advantage, watching her face the entire time. It was mechanical and profoundly intimate all at once. A perfect paradox.
Later, as dusk bled into navy blue outside the garage windows, they were tangled together on the old futon he kept in the corner for late nights. She lay with her head on his chest, listening to the steady, strong beat of his heart. His hand stroked her hair, over and over.
“We good?” she mumbled, already half-asleep, sated and soft.
He kissed the top of her head. “We’re perfect.” He stared up at the shadowed ceiling, at the dangling swing that moved in a phantom breeze. The plan was in motion. The parameters were met. But lying there, with her weight a comforting anchor on him, the reality of it suddenly clicked into place with a finality that stole his breath.
This wasn’t just hitting a window. This was changing everything. Forever. A kid. Their kid. A tiny life that would look like her, maybe have her fire. He felt a jolt of fear so sharp it was almost pain, followed by a surge of possession so vast it dwarfed every instinct he’d ever had.
His arm tightened around her. He wasn’t just building a family from memories anymore.
He was building a future from scratch. And for the first time since he’d lost his wife, the blueprint in his mind wasn’t for an engine or a heist. It was for a nursery. The fear didn’t leave, but it settled, hardening into a resolve as unshakable as iron.
He would get this right.