Chapter 18 - The Life Dominic Never Planned
Our first date was terrible.
Grace chose a small Italian restaurant in Queens because she refused to let me choose somewhere “where the napkins have a credit score.”
The waiter recognized me.
Dropped a glass.
Then spent the entire evening pretending not to look at our table.
Grace ordered pasta.
I criticized the sauce.
She told me I was free to leave.
I stayed.
At dessert, the restaurant's power went out for nine minutes.
Everyone illuminated their tables with phones.
Grace started laughing.
“What?”
“This is the most normal disaster you've had all year.”
She was right.
No conspiracy.
No sabotage.
Just an old electrical panel.
I laughed too.
Our second date went better.
Third better still.
We moved slowly.
Intentionally.
Grace refused to become another person absorbed into Dominic Moretti's world.
She finished her degree.
Passed her certification exams.
Accepted a job at an auditing firm that had once investigated one of my companies.
I accused her of betrayal.
She said, “Good. You're learning what the word means.”
One year after the crash, the trials began.
Peter Keller was convicted on corruption, conspiracy, obstruction, and homicide-related charges connected to the FDR crash and Eastbridge cover-up.
Samuel Rusk accepted a plea shortly before jury selection.
He received a long sentence.
Dr. Shaw pleaded guilty.
Pike testified.
Marcus Vane entered witness protection.
History did not end cleanly.
It rarely does.
Some officials escaped charges.
Some companies paid settlements without admitting wrongdoing.
Some people pretended they had never supported Keller.
But the central machine was gone.
Eastbridge victims' families finally received public acknowledgment.
Thomas testified.
His name was cleared.
Grace sat beside her mother throughout the proceedings.
When Thomas finished, Evelyn stood and hugged him.
This time, no slap first.
Progress.
Anthony attended Nico's memorial with me.
We stood beside the grave.
For a long time, neither spoke.
Then Anthony whispered:
“I wish I'd called you.”
“So do I.”
“I think about it every day.”
“Good.”
He looked at me.
I clarified.
“Not because I want you to suffer.”
“Then why?”
“Because forgetting would make it easy to become the same person again.”
Anthony nodded.
We left together.
Forgiveness had moved farther down the hallway.
Not all the way.
Far enough.
That summer, I established the Santoro Foundation.
Nico's widow objected to the name.
Then agreed after Grace persuaded her the foundation would provide scholarships to children of drivers, housekeepers, hospital workers, maintenance staff, restaurant employees, and other people who spent their lives being overlooked.
“The invisible,” Grace called them.
I hated the word now.
Nobody should be invisible.
Grace joined the board.
Not because I asked.
Because Nico's widow did.
She couldn't refuse Mrs. Santoro.
Nobody could.
One evening, we held the foundation's first scholarship dinner.
Hundreds attended.
Grace wore a simple dark-blue dress.
When I saw her across the ballroom, memory hit unexpectedly.
Veronica in blue beside my hospital bed.
For one second, the past and present overlapped.
Grace noticed my expression.
“You okay?”
“Yes.”
“You disappeared.”
“Just remembering.”
She knew what.
Grace touched my hand.
No performance.
No cameras needed.
No secret agenda.
Just warmth.
“Come back,” she said.
So I did.
After the event, we returned to the penthouse.
She removed her shoes in the hallway.
I complained.
“You have marble floors.”
“Exactly.”
“They'll survive.”
“You don't respect craftsmanship.”
“You don't respect feet.”
We sat by the windows.
Manhattan below.
“I got an offer,” Grace said.
My stomach tightened.
“Where?”
“Boston.”
“What kind of offer?”
“Partner-track forensic accounting.”
“How long?”
“Permanent.”
I stared at her.
“When?”
“Three months.”
My first instinct was immediate.
I could open an office in Boston.
Buy the firm.
Offer her double.
Solve the problem.
Then I remembered everything the last year had taught me.
Grace watched my face.
“I can see the billionaire thinking.”
“I wasn't.”
“Liar.”
“I was thinking.”
“Dangerous.”
I took her hand.
“Do you want it?”
“I don't know.”
“That's not an answer.”
“You say that a lot.”
“Because people avoid answers.”
She looked outside.
“I spent years making decisions based on who needed me.”
“Your mother.”
“Yes.”
“Your father.”
“Eventually.”
“Me.”
She smiled.
“Unfortunately.”
“And now?”
“I want to make one because I want it.”
“Then you should.”
Her eyes searched mine.
“Even if it means Boston?”
“Yes.”
“Would you come?”
“Sometimes.”
“You own helicopters, don't you?”
“Several.”
She sighed.
“Of course you do.”
I smiled.
“Grace.”
“Yes?”
“I love you.”
She stopped.
I had not planned it.
No restaurant.
No ring.
No dramatic skyline speech.
The words simply arrived.
Her eyes filled.
“That's inconvenient.”
“Why?”
“Because I love you too.”
I exhaled.
“Seems convenient.”
“No. Now decisions become complicated.”
“Life is complicated.”
“That's your romantic line?”
“I almost died.”
“Still using that?”
“For at least another year.”
She laughed and leaned against me.
Grace accepted the Boston offer.
I did not buy the firm.
This was considered major personal growth.
We traveled between cities.
Some weeks were difficult.
Some arguments ridiculous.
Once we didn't speak for two days because I sent security to follow her after she said not to.
I apologized.
She made me apologize again without saying “but.”
Much harder.
A year later, Grace returned to New York.
Not for me alone.
The Santoro Foundation had expanded, and she wanted to lead its financial transparency program.
She proposed the position to the board herself.
I abstained from the vote.
She won unanimously.
On the second anniversary of the crash, we visited Nico's grave.
Grace left white lilies.
I looked at her.
“I thought you hated those.”
“I did.”
“What changed?”
She touched the petals.
“They used to smell like funerals.”
“And now?”
She smiled.
“Now they remind me that something can mean something different after you survive it.”
We stood quietly.
Then my phone vibrated.
A calendar reminder.
Friday dinner — 7 p.m.
Grace saw it.
“You schedule dates with me?”
“I schedule everything.”
“Romantic.”
“I've improved.”
“A little.”
We walked toward the car.
Then she stopped.
“Dominic?”
“Yes?”
“No driver tonight.”
I looked toward the vehicle.
“Why?”
“I want you to drive.”
My expression changed.
I had not driven since the crash.
Not once.
Grace knew.
She held out the keys.
“You don't have to.”
I stared at them.
The sound of twisting metal returned.
Nico shouting.
Brake pedal.
Impact.
For two years I had avoided the driver's seat without admitting why.
Grace didn't push.
She simply held the keys.
Finally, I took them.
We entered the car.
I checked the brakes twice.
Grace pretended not to notice.
I started the engine.
“Where to?” I asked.
“Home.”
I pulled into traffic.
Slowly.
Carefully.
May you like
Alive.
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