Chapter 5 - The Letter My Father Wrote Before He Died
Carlo survived surgery.
Barely.
Victor escaped.
Daniel Rusk was arrested.
My mother was returned to the oncology floor.
Our son slept peacefully beneath guard as though his family had not spent the night dismantling twenty-two years of lies.
I waited until dawn to open the envelope.
Adrian sat beside me.
My mother sat across the hospital room.
The paper had yellowed.
My father's handwriting looked exactly as I remembered.
That almost destroyed me.
The first words did.
My little Melissa.
I covered my mouth.
My mother started crying before I read another line.
I continued silently at first.
Gabriel wrote that if I ever saw the letter, something had gone terribly wrong.
He told me my mother was the bravest person he knew.
He told me I had been the happiest part of his life.
Then came a sentence I read twice.
The violence surrounding our family is not your inheritance.
I looked at Adrian.
His eyes were fixed on the floor.
I kept reading.
My father had discovered Victor's corruption months earlier.
He had collected documents.
Accounts.
Names.
Recordings.
He knew Victor planned to move against him.
What he hadn't known was how.
Until Carlo confessed.
I read aloud.
"Carlo came to me tonight."
Adrian looked up.
"He told me what he did."
My mother wiped her face.
"Gabriel knew?"
"Yes."
The letter continued.
Carlo had begged Gabriel to cancel the gathering.
Too late.
Victor's people were already in motion.
Gabriel could have killed Carlo.
Instead he told him to evacuate women and children.
Then came Adrian.
My father's handwriting became less steady.
I whispered the words.
"Carlo's boy is innocent."
Adrian closed his eyes.
I continued.
"If Adrian survives tonight, don't teach Melissa to hate him for what his father did."
My throat closed.
"He is a child. Children should not inherit our sins."
Adrian covered his mouth with one hand.
The next sentence broke whatever restraint remained inside me.
"Maybe one day our children will build something better than we did."
Silence filled the room.
My mother's shoulders shook.
Adrian stared toward the hallway where our son slept.
"My father died saving me," he said.
"Yes."
"Knowing what Carlo had done."
"Yes."
He laughed softly.
The sound was awful.
"Gabriel had more reason to hate me than anyone."
"You were eleven."
"He understood that better than I did."
"What does that mean?"
Adrian looked at his tattooed hands.
"I built everything around fear."
He spoke slowly.
"Men obey me because they're afraid of what happens if they don't."
"Some of them."
"Most."
He looked toward our son's room again.
"I don't want him inheriting that."
I understood before he said anything else.
"You're leaving the organization."
"The illegal parts."
"Can you?"
"It won't be clean."
"Adrian."
"I have legitimate companies. Those stay."
"What about everything else?"
"I dismantle what I can. Surrender what I can't."
"You could go to prison."
"Possibly."
The answer came without drama.
That made it more frightening.
"Why now?"
He looked at my father's letter.
"Because Gabriel died believing children could end what their fathers started."
Then his gaze moved to me.
"I owe him the attempt."
Federal prosecutor Nathan Bell arrived that afternoon.
Adrian gave him copies of the ledger.
Bell stared at the pages.
Then at Adrian.
"You understand these documents expose your operations too."
"Yes."
"They could cost you companies."
"I have enough companies."
"You may face criminal charges."
"I'll answer for what I did."
Bell studied him.
"Why?"
Adrian looked through the glass toward our son.
"My son doesn't need an empire."
"What does he need?"
"A father who comes home."
That sentence stayed with me.
Friday arrived two days later.
The contract date.
I had almost forgotten.
The attorney had not.
She came to the mansion with a leather folder and six copies of documents that suddenly looked ridiculous.
Five million dollars had already been transferred into a trust.
My mother's medical expenses remained paid.
One signature remained.
Mine.
The clause was painfully clear.
I relinquished all parental rights.
Adrian became our son's sole legal parent.
I would leave.
The attorney placed the pen in front of me.
"Once signed, Ms. Hart—"
"Romano," Adrian said.
The attorney blinked.
"Of course. Ms. Romano."
I held the pen.
My hand wouldn't move.
I pictured our son at two in the morning.
His fist around my finger.
His sleepy noises.
The way he calmed when Adrian spoke.
I thought about leaving.
My stomach twisted.
"You need to sign," I whispered.
Adrian's eyes stayed on me.
"No."
"What?"
He reached across the table.
Took the contract.
And tore it.
The attorney gasped.
"Mr. Moretti!"
He tore it again.
"What are you doing?"
"Correcting something."
"You can't just—"
He looked at the attorney.
"Leave."
She left.
Quickly.
I stared at the pieces.
"Adrian."
"The money is yours."
"I didn't ask."
"Your mother's treatment remains covered."
"Stop."
"You owe me nothing."
"Stop."
He did.
My eyes burned.
"What do you want from me?"
"For once?"
"Yes."
"Nothing."
I laughed, because the alternative was crying.
"You destroyed the agreement and want nothing?"
"I want you to decide without being paid."
"Decide what?"
"Whether you want to be his mother."
The room blurred.
"Of course I want to be his mother."
"Then you are."
"Just like that?"
"No."
He leaned forward.
"Lawyers will handle the just-like-that part."
I laughed through tears.
He continued.
"And after that..."
I waited.
He suddenly looked nervous.
Adrian Moretti.
Terrifying to criminals.
Nervous with me.
"What?"
"Decide whether you want to stay."
"Here?"
"Here."
"Because of the baby?"
"No."
"Because you feel indebted to my father?"
"No."
"Then why?"
He stared at me.
"Because I've spent nearly a month pretending I won't care when you walk out the door."
My heartbeat pounded.
"And?"
"I'm tired of pretending."
I stepped closer.
"You could have said that before tearing up a legal contract."
"I'm learning."
"Slowly."
"Apparently."
I bent toward him.
He lifted one hand.
His fingers touched my cheek.
We were inches apart when the mansion alarm sounded.
Once.
Twice.
A guard entered.
"We found Salazar."
Adrian's expression changed instantly.
"Where?"
The guard placed a tablet on the table.
A video played.
Victor stood inside an abandoned warehouse beside the Chicago River.
The Romano warehouse.
My father's old property.
Behind Victor sat Nathan Bell.
Tied to a chair.
I stared.
"We saw him an hour ago."
Victor smiled into the camera.
"Adrian Moretti. Melissa Romano."
He lifted a detonator.
Fuel drums stood around the warehouse.
"Bring Gabriel's original ledger before midnight."
The camera moved toward Bell.
"Or the prosecutor dies."
The video ended.
I checked the time.
10:41 p.m.
Adrian rolled toward the door.
"No."
He stopped.
"Melissa."
"Our son needs you."
"Bell came to us."
"So we think."
His eyes narrowed.
"What?"
"Victor has been chasing the ledger for twenty-two years. Why suddenly take Bell after we already copied it?"
Adrian became still.
I looked toward the box recovered from my father's vault.
The photographs.
The ledger.
And the cassette tape.
We had never played it.
I picked it up.
There was an old recorder in the mansion archives.
Adrian found it.
The tape crackled when it began.
Static.
Then a man's voice.
My father's.
My breath stopped.
Gabriel Romano spoke from twenty-two years ago.
"Victor, if you're hearing this, you've already lost."
Adrian and I looked at each other.
May you like
And the dead man who had started this entire story began explaining how to end it.
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