Chapter 16 - Nico’s Last Message
I watched Nico's final video alone.
At first.
He sat inside the Bentley.
Parked.
Late afternoon light crossing his face.
He looked annoyed, which was how Nico usually looked when discussing anything serious.
“Boss,” he began, “if you're watching this, either I'm paranoid or I'm dead.”
He sighed.
“Knowing my luck, probably both.”
I laughed despite myself.
Then stopped.
Nico continued.
“You've got too many people around you who are loyal to your money, your name, or what they're afraid you'll do if they aren't loyal.”
He rubbed his jaw.
“I've been trying to tell you that for years.”
He had.
I hadn't listened.
“Anthony's in trouble. I don't think he wants you dead. But desperate men rent out pieces of themselves until they don't recognize what's left.”
I closed my eyes.
Perfect description.
Then Nico said:
“Veronica… I don't know.”
He frowned.
“She looks at you different when nobody's watching.”
That surprised me.
“Maybe she loves you. Maybe that makes what she's doing worse.”
He knew something.
Perhaps not everything.
Enough.
Then:
“And there's the maid.”
I opened my eyes.
Nico smiled slightly.
“Grace.”
I stared at the screen.
“They never notice her.”
He laughed.
“You don't either, by the way.”
That felt personal.
“But she notices everything.”
Nico leaned closer to the camera.
“Last month I left my wallet in the kitchen. Five thousand cash inside. She chased me down three blocks because she thought I'd lost it.”
I remembered that day.
Nico complained about being out of breath.
Never said why.
“That woman could've taken the money and nobody would've known.”
He shrugged.
“That's character, boss. The things you could take when nobody would catch you.”
My throat tightened.
Then Nico became serious.
“If anything happens, trust the person who has nothing to gain.”
The video ended.
I replayed that sentence four times.
Trust the person who has nothing to gain.
All my life, I had measured relationships by leverage.
What did someone want?
What could they lose?
What did I control?
Nico had reduced the problem to something simpler.
Who stayed when there was nothing available to steal?
Grace.
She entered without knocking.
“You skipped breakfast.”
“I’m dead. I don't need breakfast.”
“Your death certificate was corrected.”
“Unfortunate.”
She placed coffee on the table.
Then saw the laptop.
“Nico?”
“Yes.”
“Anything important?”
“Insults, mostly.”
“That sounds like him.”
I looked at her.
“Thank you.”
“For coffee?”
“For everything.”
She became uncomfortable.
“Don't.”
“What?”
“Turn me into some heroic person.”
“I wasn't.”
“You were about to.”
“I said thank you.”
“You say thank you like you're awarding a medal.”
I smiled.
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
“Coffee's terrible.”
“I didn't make it.”
“Then thank you.”
She rolled her eyes.
Normality felt extraordinary.
Anthony entered later that afternoon.
No federal agents.
No lawyer.
Just Anthony.
He had agreed to cooperate.
He would likely avoid prison on the most serious charges because evidence supported his claim that he did not know the sabotage would be lethal.
But he would lose much of what he'd built.
He had accepted that.
“I sold the house,” he said.
“What house?”
“My Hamptons place.”
“Why?”
“To pay Nico's family.”
I stared at him.
“Did they accept?”
“No.”
That sounded like Nico's wife.
“So I'm putting it in trust for his grandson.”
I nodded.
“Good.”
Anthony sat.
“I don't expect you to forgive me.”
“Good.”
He smiled sadly.
“You really make reconciliation difficult.”
“You helped sabotage my car.”
“Fair.”
Silence.
Then he said, “I'm sorry.”
I had heard many apologies.
Most contain invisible negotiations.
I'm sorry, so forgive me.
I'm sorry, so stop being angry.
I'm sorry, so remove consequences.
Anthony's had none.
That made it harder.
“I know,” I said.
He nodded.
Maybe forgiveness isn't a door.
Maybe it's a hallway.
You enter slowly.
That evening, Thomas visited.
Grace and her father had spent two days talking.
Mostly arguing.
Which was healthy.
Thomas intended to reunite with Evelyn once security arrangements were established.
Grace did not know what their family would become.
Neither did he.
But they were finally allowed to find out.
Thomas stood beside my bed.
“Thank you for bringing her to me.”
“She brought herself.”
He smiled.
“Yes. She does that.”
“I noticed.”
He became serious.
“Take care of her.”
I frowned.
“She isn't mine to take care of.”
Thomas looked pleasantly surprised.
“Good answer.”
Then left.
I was discharged three days later.
Photographers filled the hospital entrance.
They expected the old Dominic Moretti.
Dark cars.
Security.
Silence.
Instead, I stopped at the microphones.
“For the past week,” I said, “many people have speculated about what happened to me.”
Cameras flashed.
“Federal investigators will address the criminal allegations.”
I paused.
“But I want to say one thing.”
Reporters leaned closer.
“Nico Santoro saved my life for nineteen years. On the night of the crash, he tried to save it one final time.”
My voice almost broke.
I let it.
“He was more than my driver.”
I didn't call him an employee.
I didn't call him loyal.
“He was my friend.”
For once, the newspapers printed something true.
Then I returned home.
The penthouse felt enormous.
Silent.
Veronica's clothes were gone.
Sam's files removed.
Anthony's key disabled.
For the first time, the place belonged only to me.
I hated it.
Grace had come to retrieve the last of her cleaning supplies.
She stood by the door holding a small box.
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“Home.”
“I mean for work.”
She shrugged.
“I'll find something.”
“You're not coming back?”
She stared at me.
“To clean?”
“No.”
“What would I do?”
I had been preparing an answer.
“Finish college.”
Her expression changed.
“I can pay—”
“No.”
I stopped.
Wrong approach.
Grace crossed her arms.
“I don't want charity.”
“I know.”
“You were going to offer charity.”
“I was going to offer a scholarship.”
“That's charity with paperwork.”
I almost argued.
Then Nico's voice returned.
Character is what you could take when no one catches you.
Grace didn't want to take.
So I changed the offer.
“I need someone to audit Moretti Holdings.”
She laughed.
“I'm not qualified.”
“Finish school.”
“And then?”
“Apply.”
“Apply?”
“Yes.”
“You won't just give me the job?”
“No.”
She studied me suspiciously.
“That sounds surprisingly normal.”
“I'm experimenting.”
Grace smiled.
“I'll think about it.”
She reached the elevator.
“Grace.”
She turned.
“What?”
“Come to dinner.”
A pause.
“As my employee?”
“You don't work for me.”
“As your former maid?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
I suddenly felt more nervous than I had facing Keller.
“As Grace.”
She looked at me for a long moment.
Then smiled.
“Ask me again when you're not recovering from pain medication.”
The elevator doors closed.
I stood alone in the hallway.
Then smiled.
Because for the first time in years, someone had walked away from Dominic Moretti without fear.
And I wanted her to come back because she chose to.
May you like
Not because I paid her.
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