Chapter 18 - Wait Your Turn
Ten years after the slap, the Russo Institute held its anniversary gala.
I hated galas.
Apparently that was my destiny.
Adrian stood beside me in a black suit.
Older now.
A little gray at his temples.
Still unfairly handsome.
“You look nervous,” he said.
“I’m surrounded by accountants.”
“Terrifying.”
Marco arrived with his wife and their son.
Yes.
Marco Moretti had married.
To a public defender named Sophie who had once told him on their first date:
“I know your entire criminal record.”
Marco replied:
“Great. Saves time.”
She loved him.
But she never romanticized his past.
That was probably why they worked.
My mother was seventy-two and still capable of terrifying caterers.
Isabella sat beside her.
Victoria, now ten, wore my father’s silver bracelet.
I had given it to her that morning.
“Be careful with it,” I said.
She looked offended.
“Mom.”
“I’m allowed to worry.”
“Dad says worrying is your hobby.”
I turned toward Adrian.
He immediately walked away.
Coward.
During dinner, the institute announced it had recovered or prevented more than $600 million in fraud affecting charities, pension plans, small businesses, and public projects.
People applauded.
I thought about eighteen million dollars.
One missing account.
One arrogant man grabbing my wrist.
One slap.
Lives turn on absurdly small hinges.
After dinner, Victoria found me near the windows.
“Mom?”
“Yes?”
“Uncle Marco says you punched him.”
“I slapped him.”
“He says it was legendary.”
“Your uncle exaggerates.”
Marco shouted from across the room:
“I HEARD THAT.”
Everyone laughed.
Victoria looked toward Adrian.
“Then Dad stood up?”
“Yes.”
“And he said, ‘Do you know who I am?’”
I groaned.
“Your father was dramatic.”
Adrian approached.
“I was making a reasonable inquiry.”
“You were trying to intimidate me.”
“It didn’t work.”
“No.”
Victoria smiled.
“What did Mom say?”
Adrian and I answered together.
“Wait your turn.”
She laughed.
Then she looked between us.
“That’s when you fell in love?”
“No,” I said.
“Yes,” Adrian said.
I stared at him.
“What?”
He shrugged.
“You had my attention.”
“You thought I might be insane.”
“Those things are not mutually exclusive.”
I hit his arm.
He kissed my forehead.
Later that evening, the three of us stood beside the window overlooking Chicago.
The city looked almost exactly as it had that first night.
Lights.
Glass.
Traffic.
Millions of lives intersecting without knowing it.
Adrian took my hand.
His thumb touched the faint place where the bracelet had once rested.
“Do you ever wish it happened differently?” he asked.
“My father?”
“All of it.”
I thought for a long time.
“I wish my father lived.”
“Of course.”
“I wish Marco never stole anything.”
Marco, walking behind us, said:
“Same.”
I continued.
“I wish your family never hurt mine.”
Adrian nodded.
“But I don’t wish the truth away.”
Neither did he.
We couldn’t rewrite what happened.
We could only refuse to waste what we learned from it.
The music began again.
Adrian held out his hand.
“Dance?”
“I’m working.”
“It’s our gala.”
“Exactly.”
“Wait your turn?”
I smiled.
“You finally learned.”
He kissed me.
And somewhere behind us, my mother shouted:
“Get a room!”
Victoria yelled:
“Grandma!”
Everyone laughed.
It should have been the perfect ending.
But life rarely gives you endings when you expect them.
The real ending came one year later.
On an ordinary Tuesday morning.
When a package arrived at the institute addressed to me.
Inside was a single object.
The original black crown stamp used by Salvatore and Bellini.
And a note from the federal evidence division.
CASE CLOSED. PROPERTY RELEASED TO FAMILY OF VITTORIO RUSSO.
I held the stamp for a long time.
May you like
Then I knew exactly what to do with it.
---
