Chapter 9 - A DIFFERENT KIND OF POWER
Roman’s first month home was terrible.
He hated the ankle monitor.
Not because it was uncomfortable.
Because he could not control where he went.
I found that irony delicious.
“You’re enjoying this.”
“A little.”
“That’s cruel.”
“Character building.”
He glared at me.
Clara laughed.
Home confinement restricted his movement to approved activities.
Medical appointments.
Therapy.
Legal meetings.
Limited work.
Family obligations.
Roman followed every rule.
Sometimes angrily.
But completely.
He had sold the construction companies most closely connected to his father’s network.
The remaining logistics business operated under independent compliance.
For the first time since I met him, Roman wasn’t surrounded by men waiting for commands.
He had to learn who he was without an army.
It was not easy.
One morning, a delivery driver parked on the grass.
Roman stared through the window.
“What?”
“He parked on the lawn.”
“Yes.”
“That’s unacceptable.”
“Are you planning to have him disappear?”
Roman looked offended.
“I was going to ask him to move.”
“Growth.”
“You’ve become unbearable.”
“So I’ve been told.”
He went outside.
Asked politely.
Returned.
“No one died.”
“I’m proud.”
He threw a dish towel at me.
We started couples therapy.
Roman hated that even more than meditation.
Dr. Ellen Price was sixty-two and immune to intimidation.
In our first session, she asked:
“What does Savannah need to feel loved?”
Roman answered immediately.
“Safety.”
I shook my head.
Dr. Price looked at me.
“What do you need?”
“Choice.”
Roman went still.
One word.
Choice.
That became the foundation of everything.
Did I want security at a public event?
Ask.
Did I want Roman at an appointment?
Ask.
Was I comfortable with his business meeting at home?
Ask.
Did I want to move?
Ask.
The strangest part was that I sometimes chose the thing Roman would have chosen for me.
I wanted security at crowded events.
I wanted him beside me at appointments.
I wanted certain cameras around the estate.
Choice did not always change the answer.
It changed who owned it.
Six months after Roman came home, we sold the estate.
Everyone was shocked.
Roman had been raised there.
His father bought the property when Roman was twelve.
The walls had been expanded after a shooting in 2008.
The security system cost more than most houses.
I hated it.
Roman finally admitted he did too.
We bought a house in Winnetka.
Large.
Beautiful.
But a house.
Not a compound.
Our backyard had a wooden fence.
A normal fence.
Roman stood staring at it the first evening.
“That wouldn’t stop anyone.”
“It stops the neighbor’s golden retriever.”
“That dog is not a credible threat.”
“Exactly.”
He looked deeply suspicious of suburban life.
Then the golden retriever jumped the fence anyway.
Roman stared at me.
“I told you.”
I laughed until I cried.
Clara loved the new house.
Sophia refused to move in with us because she claimed she had spent thirty years living among Vascaris and deserved retirement.
We bought her a condo fifteen minutes away.
She visited almost daily.
In spring, Roman planted tomatoes.
They died.
He took it personally.
“You cannot intimidate vegetables.”
“That’s becoming clear.”
Our marriage became ordinary in ways I never expected to appreciate.
Bills.
Laundry.
Pediatrician visits.
Arguments about dishes.
Roman still had wealth.
Still had influence.
But fear was no longer the product he sold.
He began funding violence-intervention programs in neighborhoods where his family had once recruited young men.
Not under the Vascari name.
He refused publicity.
When I asked why, he said:
“If I need applause for repairing damage my family helped create, then I haven’t learned much.”
That was when I knew he had changed.
Not completely.
People do not transform into different species.
Roman remained Roman.
Protective.
Intense.
Occasionally bossy.
Terrible at resting.
But when he slipped, he caught himself.
“Don’t go alone.”
He would pause.
“Sorry. Would you feel better taking someone?”
Sometimes I said yes.
Sometimes no.
He learned both answers were survivable.
One December afternoon, almost two years after the Christmas Eve when I left, I found my old wedding ring inside a small velvet box.
Roman had kept it.
It was the ring I left beneath the tree.
I carried it downstairs.
He was making coffee.
“Where did you find that?”
“Your desk.”
He looked guilty.
“You were searching my desk?”
“I was looking for tape.”
“Suspicious.”
I held up the ring.
“Why did you keep it?”
His face softened.
“Because I didn’t know whether you would ever want it again.”
“I already have a ring.”
He looked at my hand.
After he came home, we had never replaced the original.
I wore a simple gold band.
One I chose.
Roman nodded.
“I know.”
I turned the old ring between my fingers.
It was enormous.
Diamonds everywhere.
A Roman Vascari ring.
A declaration of possession disguised as jewelry.
“I don’t want this one.”
He nodded.
“Okay.”
No hurt.
No persuasion.
Just okay.
I smiled.
“Do you know how much growth it takes for you to say that?”
“Apparently approximately eighteen months of therapy and federal custody.”
I laughed.
Then something moved inside me.
I froze.
Roman noticed.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Savannah.”
I placed a hand on my stomach.
His eyes widened.
“No.”
I smiled.
“Yes.”
He stared.
“You’re pregnant?”
“Ten weeks.”
“Ten?”
“I wanted to be sure.”
Roman sat down suddenly.
I laughed.
“Are you okay?”
“No.”
He looked terrified.
Then happy.
Then terrified again.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes.”
“Doctor?”
“Everything looks good.”
“You already went?”
“Yes.”
His face fell for half a second.
Old pain.
He had missed so much of my first pregnancy.
Then he caught himself.
“Did you want to go alone?”
“Yes.”
He nodded.
“Okay.”
I walked toward him.
“But I want you at the next one.”
His eyes filled.
“Really?”
“Yes.”
He wrapped his arms around me.
Then immediately loosened them.
“Am I squeezing too hard?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Roman.”
“Right.”
I laughed against his chest.
That night, after Clara slept, we sat beneath the Christmas tree.
No guards.
No hidden guns.
No anonymous photographs.
Roman placed his hand over my stomach.
“Boy or girl?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“It matters for names.”
“You are not naming our son Roman Junior.”
“Why?”
“One Roman Vascari is enough administrative burden.”
He looked offended.
Then smiled.
Outside, snow began falling.
Almost exactly like that Christmas Eve.
For a moment, memory returned.
The empty dinner table.
The photograph.
My suitcase.
The ring beneath the tree.
Roman must have felt it too.
“I’m sorry.”
I looked at him.
“For what?”
“That night.”
“You’ve apologized.”
“I know.”
“Then why now?”
“Because some things remain worth being sorry for even after forgiveness.”
That was another difference.
He no longer treated forgiveness like erasure.
I took his hand.
“You did something right that night too.”
His eyebrows rose.
“What?”
“Eventually.”
“That qualification feels important.”
“You came home.”
He smiled sadly.
“Too late.”
“Then.”
I leaned against him.
“But not forever.”
Three months later, Roman completed every condition of his sentence.
The ankle monitor came off.
He stood in our kitchen holding the device.
“So I’m free.”
“Yes.”
He looked at me.
Then smiled.
“No.”
I frowned.
“What?”
“I think I’m finally free now.”
I understood.
Not because a court said so.
Because fear no longer ran his life.
Our son was due in August.
We named him Nicholas.
Not after Roman’s father.
Not after mine.
A new name.
A new beginning.
And when I entered labor, Roman asked one question before doing anything.
“What do you need?”
I smiled through the contraction.
May you like
“You.”
This time, that was enough.
