Chapter 6 - The Empty Chair
Roman stopped taking calls during breakfast.
At first, everyone around him treated this like a temporary illness.
His assistant would say, “I know it’s before eight, but—”
Roman would answer, “Then call after eight.”
People adjusted.
The world did not collapse.
No empire crumbled.
No emergency destroyed the city because Roman Falcone spent forty minutes eating cereal with his daughter.
That realization irritated him.
It meant the excuses had been weaker than he thought.
Mia noticed the change immediately.
She began arriving at breakfast with stories prepared.
One morning, she explained why squirrels were “basically tiny criminals.”
Another morning, she gave Roman a detailed account of a disagreement between two girls in her class involving a glitter pen.
Roman listened.
Sometimes he failed.
Sometimes he checked his phone.
Sometimes he answered a call.
But now Mia noticed when he came back.
So did he.
One Thursday, Roman took her to Cal’s.
Peter’s seat was empty.
Mia frowned.
“Where’s Peter?”
Roman looked around.
“I don’t know.”
The waitress approached.
“He hasn’t been in all week.”
Roman’s chest tightened unexpectedly.
“Is he sick?”
“She said he didn’t feel great Monday.”
Roman called Peter.
No answer.
He tried again that evening.
Still nothing.
The next morning, Peter finally responded.
Alive.
Grumpy.
“Stop calling.”
Roman sat back in relief.
“Where are you?”
“Home.”
“You’re sick?”
“I’m sixty-three. Sometimes my body files complaints.”
“Do you need anything?”
Silence.
Then Peter laughed.
“Is Roman Falcone asking if I need soup?”
“I can withdraw the offer.”
“Too late.”
Roman brought soup.
Mia insisted on coming.
Peter’s house surprised Roman.
Small.
Warm.
Books everywhere.
Old framed photographs covered the walls.
Mia wandered toward them.
“Dad.”
Roman looked.
A photograph showed Vincent Falcone at perhaps twenty-five.
Peter beside him.
Both laughing.
Roman had never seen his father look that young.
Mia pointed.
“Grandpa.”
“Yes.”
Peter sat in an armchair.
“He hated that picture.”
“Why?”
“Hair.”
Vincent’s hair was absurdly long.
Roman laughed.
Mia examined another photograph.
Three men camping.
Vincent appeared to be trying to cook something over a fire.
“What’s he doing?”
“Ruining dinner,” Peter said.
Mia giggled.
Roman stared at the photographs.
He realized Peter possessed something he did not.
A version of his father untouched by authority.
No suits.
No drivers.
No people waiting for permission to speak.
Just Vincent.
Young.
Stupid.
Human.
“Why didn’t you come to the funeral?” Roman asked.
Peter’s smile disappeared.
“I did.”
Roman looked at him.
“I didn’t see you.”
“I stayed at the back.”
“Why?”
Peter looked toward Mia.
“Complicated.”
Roman waited.
Peter sighed.
“Your father and I had been speaking again, but your family didn’t know.”
“Why hide it?”
“Vincent had spent years pretending he didn’t miss people.”
That sounded painfully accurate.
Peter looked at the watch.
“When he got sick, he started calling old friends.”
“How many?”
“Not many.”
Roman sat across from him.
“And he gave you the letter.”
“Yes.”
Peter looked at Mia, who was studying another photograph.
“He was afraid you’d remember his habits instead of his regrets.”
Roman absorbed that.
Mia suddenly returned carrying a framed picture.
“Who’s this?”
Peter looked.
His expression changed completely.
A woman with dark hair stood beside him.
“My wife.”
“Where is she?”
Peter smiled sadly.
“She died a few years ago.”
Mia’s voice softened instinctively.
“Oh.”
She placed the photograph carefully beside him.
“Were you sad?”
“Yes.”
“Still?”
Peter looked at Roman.
Then back at Mia.
“Sometimes.”
Mia nodded as if this made perfect sense.
“Me too, and I didn’t know Grandpa.”
Peter’s eyes watered slightly.
Roman looked away to give him privacy.
Children, he was learning, walked straight through doors adults spent decades locking.
Later, Mia sat at Peter’s dining table drawing.
Roman watched her.
Four people appeared.
Mia.
Roman.
Peter.
Vincent, drawn from one of the old photographs.
Roman pointed.
“You put Grandpa there.”
“He knows everybody.”
“Technically.”
Mia drew another chair.
Empty.
Roman’s stomach tightened.
“Who’s that for?”
Mia looked confused.
“Nobody.”
Roman blinked.
“Nobody?”
“It’s just a chair.”
He laughed.
Of course.
Not every chair was a metaphor.
Peter laughed too.
Roman shook his head.
“I think you broke my brain.”
“Good,” Peter said.
While Mia colored, Peter walked Roman toward the kitchen.
“I need to give you something.”
He opened a drawer.
Another envelope.
Roman recognized his father’s handwriting.
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
Peter smiled.
“Vincent enjoyed dramatic timing.”
“What is this?”
“The rest.”
“The rest of what?”
“The letter you have isn’t complete.”
Roman stared.
Peter handed it to him.
“Why?”
“Because he told me not to give you this part until I believed you understood the first.”
Roman’s eyes narrowed.
“You really enjoyed this assignment.”
“I hated it.”
Peter’s answer was immediate.
Roman believed him.
“Why keep the promise?”
Peter looked toward Mia.
“Because he was my friend.”
Roman waited.
“And because he was right about one thing.”
“What?”
“Men like him often don’t realize what they missed until there’s nobody left to sit with.”
Roman looked through the doorway.
Mia was coloring Vincent’s shirt blue.
Peter lowered his voice.
“Your father wanted better for you.”
Roman looked at the envelope.
“I spent most of my life thinking he wanted me to become him.”
“No.”
Peter shook his head.
“He wanted you to become stronger than him.”
Roman smiled faintly.
“That sounds like something fathers say when they’ve made mistakes.”
Peter smiled back.
“That’s exactly what it is.”
That night, Roman waited until Mia was asleep.
He sat alone at the kitchen table.
The same table from the drawings.
He opened the envelope.
One final page.
Son,
If you are reading this, Peter believes you finally understand why I asked him to watch from a distance.
I hope you are angry with me.
Anger means I still matter enough to disappoint you.
Roman swallowed.
He kept reading.
I spent my life building walls.
Some were necessary.
Some were not.
After enough years, I stopped knowing the difference.
Roman looked around the quiet kitchen.
The alarm panel glowed near the door.
Cameras watched the property outside.
Everything secure.
Everything controlled.
He returned to the letter.
If you have a child, protect them.
Protect them fiercely.
But do not confuse protection with presence.
A locked door can keep danger out.
It cannot make a child feel known.
Roman stopped reading.
Peter’s phrase.
Not Peter’s.
Vincent’s.
Roman closed his eyes.
The final paragraph waited.
Tomorrow morning, Roman would finish it.
But first he went upstairs.
Mia was sleeping sideways across her bed.
Roman gently moved her blanket.
On her desk was a new drawing.
The kitchen again.
The table again.
Mia sat on one side.
Roman sat opposite.
No phone.
No briefcase.
No empty chair.
At the bottom she had written one word.
BREAKFAST.
May you like
Roman smiled.
Then he returned downstairs to finish his father’s letter.
