Chapter 5 - An Apology Without Excuses
Luca was found three days later, at a property in New Jersey that Enzo had identified through the Caruso connection. What happened after that, I didn’t ask about in detail. What I knew was that Cristian came back to the brownstone at two in the morning looking like someone who had done something he’d rather not have had to do, and I made him coffee, and we sat at the kitchen table until the sky got light.
“The Carusos sent a message through an intermediary,” he said, midway through the second cup. “They’re willing to discuss terms. Tonight apparently convinced them that expanding in this direction isn’t worth the cost.”
“What terms?”
“Territory concessions. We keep the waterfront access. They keep their operations in Staten Island and south. Clean line. No crossings.”
“Will it hold?”
“For now. These things always require maintenance.” He looked at me. “That’s the honest answer.”
“Good. The honest answer is what I wanted.”
Outside the kitchen window, the river was going silver with early light. I thought about the day of the wedding — the corridor, the marble, the veil that had felt like a mockery. I thought about the car chase and the bullet that had taken out the window and the bruise on my shoulder that was now yellow-green and fading.
I thought about what Cristian had said in the sitting room: I wanted a reason to approach you that wouldn’t be refused.
It was still wrong. The method was still wrong. I wasn’t going to revise that.
But I was also, I realized, not the only person in this marriage who had been afraid. He had been afraid too — afraid of what wanting something openly would cost him, afraid of vulnerability in a world that treated vulnerability as invitation. He had done what people did when they were afraid and had power: he had controlled the circumstances instead of accepting the risk.
I understood that. I didn’t excuse it. But I understood it.
“I want to see the waterfront property,” I said.
He looked up.
“The one that came through the marriage arrangement. I want to see what’s there. Structurally.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s going to need significant development if we’re going to actually use it, and I’d rather have someone involved who knows what they’re looking at.” I met his eyes. “Unless you’d prefer someone else.”
Something shifted in his face. Not the careful, controlled shift I had seen before — something less managed than that. Something that looked like relief.
“No,” he said. “I’d prefer you.”
“Then schedule it.” I stood. “I’m going to sleep for approximately twelve hours, and when I wake up I’d like to discuss the structural survey timeline.”
I was at the doorway when he said, quietly: “Sera.”
I stopped.
“I know I don’t have the right to say this yet.” His voice was careful in the way of someone who had chosen their words and was committed to them. “But I would like to.”
“Then say it.”
“I’m sorry. For the method. For the corridor. For four months of distance when what I should have done was find a way to start this conversation much earlier.” A pause. “I’m sorry that the first real conversation we had happened after someone tried to have you shot.”
I stood in the doorway for a moment.
May you like
“That’s a reasonable apology,” I said. “I’ll think about what I want to do with it.”
I slept until noon.
