Chapter 9 - Thirty-Two MonthsPeople think waiting is passive.
It isn’t.
Waiting can be the hardest work you ever do.
The first month Luca was gone, Mateo stopped sleeping through the night.
The second month, he punched a boy at school for calling his father a murderer.
The third month, he asked me whether bad people could become good.
I didn’t know how to answer.
So I told him the truth.
“People are more complicated than good or bad.”
He looked dissatisfied.
“Like Darth Vader?”
“Pretty much.”
“He killed lots of people.”
“Yes.”
“And then saved Luke.”
“Yes.”
“So Papa is Darth Vader?”
I stared at him.
“We absolutely cannot tell Luca you said that.”
Mateo smiled for the first time that week.
Life reorganized itself.
Rafael became chief operating officer of the newly legitimate Moretti Holdings.
Rosa continued managing the estate with terrifying efficiency.
Illegal businesses were sold or dissolved.
Several legitimate companies survived.
Restaurants.
Commercial property.
Freight logistics.
A small winery Luca had bought years earlier because Elena liked the view.
The federal government seized enormous amounts of money.
Luca kept enough legal assets that neither Mateo nor his grandchildren would ever worry about rent.
I found that ironic.
Because I still thought like the woman who once counted twenty-three dollars until payday.
Six months after Luca entered prison, I returned to nursing school.
His reaction arrived in a handwritten letter.
Claire,
I am attempting not to sound insufferably proud, because you once informed me that arrogant men become boring quickly.
I am failing.
I am proud of you.
Finish what grief interrupted.
L.
I kept that letter.
I kept all of them.
Luca wrote every week.
Not romantic masterpieces.
Sometimes just observations.
Mateo’s grades.
Questions about school.
Complaints about prison coffee.
Once, three paragraphs about a man named Harold who cheated at chess.
But occasionally he wrote things that stopped me.
I used to think missing someone meant wanting them nearby. I understand now that it means noticing the exact shape of the space they occupy when they are gone.
Or:
Mateo asked me during visitation whether I am still a bad man. I told him I am a man who did bad things and must spend the rest of my life choosing better ones. I hope that was the right answer.
I wrote back:
It was.
Our relationship changed.
Without his power around him, Luca became easier to see.
Without danger demanding every decision, I became easier to see too.
I realized I had built my identity around rescuing people.
My mother.
Mateo.
Luca.
Patients.
But I had almost forgotten how to build something for myself.
Nursing school changed that.
I graduated twenty-six months after Luca went away.
Mateo sat in the front row wearing a tie he hated.
Rosa cried.
Rafael pretended not to.
After the ceremony, I drove to visit Luca.
He walked into the visiting room.
His hair was shorter.
A little gray at the temples.
He looked thinner.
But when he saw my graduation pin, his entire face changed.
“You did it.”
“I did.”
He sat across from me.
“I wish I had been there.”
“So do I.”
I reached across the table.
He took my hand.
“I have something to tell you.”
His expression turned wary.
“You met someone.”
I almost laughed.
“What?”
“You hesitated.”
“You think I drove directly from graduation to prison to announce my new boyfriend?”
“I have had thirty months to develop irrational fears.”
I smiled.
“My residency placement is at St. Catherine’s.”
“That is excellent.”
“Pediatrics.”
His expression softened.
“Perfect.”
“And I leased an apartment.”
He stopped.
“You’re leaving the estate.”
“Yes.”
His thumb moved over my knuckles.
“Good.”
That surprised me.
“Good?”
“You need your own life.”
“I thought you might be hurt.”
“I am.”
At least he was honest.
“But I am also glad.”
“I’ll still be with Mateo almost every day.”
“I know.”
“And with you.”
His eyes lifted.
“I don’t know what happens when you come home.”
“Neither do I.”
“I don’t want to move from a fortress into another fortress.”
“You won’t.”
“I don’t want guards around every corner.”
“Agreed.”
“I don’t want secrets.”
“Agreed.”
“I don’t want you making decisions for me because you think you know better.”
He hesitated.
“That one may require practice.”
I laughed.
He smiled.
Then became serious.
“Claire, when I get out, I don’t expect the life we had before.”
“Good.”
“I want to earn something different.”
My throat tightened.
“Then do that.”
Three weeks later, we received news.
Luca would be released after thirty-two months.
His cooperation had dismantled multiple trafficking and extortion operations.
His conduct record was clean.
He had completed business ethics courses, which Rafael found hilarious.
The release date arrived on a cold November morning.
Mateo was nine now.
Tall enough that I hated looking at old photographs.
We drove together.
Rafael insisted on driving.
No convoy.
No armed procession.
Just one ordinary SUV.
The prison gates opened at 9:06 a.m.
Luca walked out carrying one duffel bag.
No suit.
Dark jeans.
Gray coat.
For a second, nobody moved.
Then Mateo opened the door.
“Papa!”
Luca dropped the bag.
Mateo ran into him.
Luca lifted his son despite Mateo being considerably larger than when he left.
They held each other.
I cried immediately.
Rafael looked away.
Then Luca saw me.
Everything became quiet again.
Like the first night.
But this silence held no threat.
Only time.
Thirty-two months of it.
He approached slowly.
“Hello, Claire.”
“Hello, Luca.”
He looked nervous.
Luca Moretti.
Nervous.
I almost loved him more for it.
“I’m not sure what I’m allowed to do.”
I smiled through tears.
“That’s new.”
“Very.”
I stepped closer.
“You can kiss me.”
He did.
No gunshots.
No alarms.
No shattered glass.
Just cold air and Mateo complaining that grown-ups were embarrassing.
When we pulled apart, Luca rested his forehead against mine.
“I have one question.”
“That sounds dangerous.”
“Will you come somewhere with me?”
“Where?”
“You’ll see.”
We drove north.
Not toward the estate.
Toward the Hudson Valley.
Forty minutes later, Rafael turned onto a quiet road.
A modest white farmhouse appeared beyond bare trees.
I stared.
“What is this?”
Luca looked almost shy.
“I bought it before sentencing.”
“When?”
“Through Rafael.”
Rafael raised a hand from the front seat.
“Accomplice.”
I stepped out.
The property had ten acres.
A red barn.
A vegetable garden gone dormant for winter.
No gate.
No guard towers.
No cameras visible every six feet.
I turned toward Luca.
“You bought a farm?”
“Technically an orchard.”
Mateo ran toward the porch.
“There’s a treehouse!”
I stared at Luca.
“Why?”
His answer was simple.
“You told me to make normal available to him.”
My eyes burned.
“The estate?”
“Still owned. Mostly offices now.”
“And you live here?”
“If Mateo likes it.”
He looked at me.
“And if you can imagine spending time here.”
I walked toward the porch.
The house wasn’t enormous.
Four bedrooms.
Wood floors.
A kitchen with blue cabinets.
A fireplace.
Sunlight everywhere.
On the refrigerator was a drawing.
Three people.
A boy.
A man.
A woman.
Underneath, in Mateo’s handwriting:
MY FAMILY.
I turned.
Luca stood behind me.
For once, neither of us needed words.
But our story wasn’t finished.
Because the following spring, a letter arrived.
May you like
And the name written on the return address was one I never expected to see again.
Dominic Moretti.
