Chapter 26 - SALVATORE'S LAST DECISION
Roman had spent his whole adult life believing his father died inside the world he chose.
Heart attack at fifty-eight.
Still powerful.
Still feared.
Still Vascari.
The truth was uglier and kinder.
Salvatore had planned to cooperate with federal authorities.
Not out of morality.
At first.
Out of fear for Isabella.
Then Roman.
He had learned Devereux and Carlo were using Roman’s name on companies without telling him.
Preparing the next generation.
Salvatore wanted out.
He began selling assets.
Moving legitimate businesses.
Creating records.
Isabella created the restitution trust.
They planned to leave Chicago after Roman graduated college.
Then Isabella died.
Salvatore changed.
“He thought Martin killed her,” Sophia said.
Roman whispered:
“Why didn’t he go to police?”
“Because he believed the police were compromised.”
“He could have taken me.”
“He tried.”
I looked at Roman.
“What happened?”
Sophia’s face broke.
“You refused.”
Roman stared at her.
“I was nineteen.”
“You told him you would never run.”
Fragments of memory returned.
A screaming fight.
His father telling him Europe.
Roman calling him a coward.
Roman had forgotten what the argument was about.
Or perhaps never understood.
“He stayed because of me.”
“No,” Sophia said sharply.
“Do not do that.”
Roman looked at her.
“Your father made his choice.”
She pointed at him.
“You do not inherit responsibility for choices adults made around you.”
I loved her for that.
The bank box contained one more document.
A sworn statement from Salvatore.
Naming Devereux.
Naming Carlo.
Admitting his own crimes.
And describing his suspicion that Isabella’s crash had been arranged.
It was never filed.
Why?
Because Salvatore died four days before his scheduled meeting with prosecutors.
Heart attack.
Natural, according to the death certificate.
Roman stared at the page.
“Was it?”
Agent Avery answered carefully.
“We don’t know.”
That uncertainty hurt more than certainty.
Two parents.
Two suspicious deaths.
One lawyer still alive.
Roman walked outside.
I followed.
He stood beside the frozen lake.
“I want to kill him.”
There it was.
No euphemism.
No performance.
I waited.
Roman looked at me.
“I won’t.”
I nodded.
“But I want to.”
“I know.”
“I hate that part of me.”
“I don’t.”
He frowned.
“Wanting isn’t doing.”
His eyes filled.
“My father stayed because I asked him.”
“No.”
I took his hand.
“He stayed because he didn’t know how to leave without losing you.”
Roman looked toward the lake.
That sounded familiar.
For years he had believed holding tighter prevented loss.
Maybe Salvatore had taught him that without ever meaning to.
Roman whispered:
“I spent half my life hating him.”
“And now?”
He thought for a long time.
“I think he was a man who understood too late.”
May you like
That was not forgiveness.
But it was the beginning of truth.
