Chapter 15 - My Mother’s Last Letter
I waited until evening to open it.
Michael brought the envelope himself.
We sat in my apartment, the kitchen window finally repaired.
Dominic waited downstairs.
Not because I asked.
Because he understood some things belonged to family.
Michael handed me the letter.
“Your mother gave this to me twenty years ago.”
“You had it all this time?”
“She told me not to send it unless everything was over.”
“It isn’t completely over.”
“No.”
“But close enough?”
He smiled.
“She always hated waiting.”
I opened it.
My daughter,
If you are reading this, then you know more about your father and me than I ever wanted you to know.
I am sorry for every lie.
But I need you to understand something.
We spent too much of our lives reacting to dangerous men.
Do not spend yours doing the same.
Do not become a nurse because you think you must save everyone.
Do not love someone because you think you can repair him.
Do not stay alone because you are afraid love creates weakness.
Choose.
That is all I ever wanted for you.
Choose your work.
Choose your people.
Choose your home.
Choose your life.
Not mine.
Not your father’s.
Yours.
Love always,
Mom.
I read it three times.
Then I cried.
Michael sat beside me.
“I’m sorry.”
“For what part?”
“All of it.”
I leaned against him.
Awkwardly.
We were strangers related by blood and regret.
But we were learning.
That counted.
Later, I found Dominic downstairs.
He was leaning against his car.
“You waited.”
“You sounded surprised.”
“I’m adjusting.”
He looked at the envelope.
“Good letter?”
“Painfully.”
We walked.
No destination.
Just Chicago streets after rain.
Eventually, I said, “My mother warned me not to love someone because I think I can repair him.”
Dominic stopped.
I immediately regretted saying it aloud.
He looked at me.
“Smart woman.”
“Yes.”
“You planning to ignore her?”
“Absolutely not.”
His expression was unreadable.
Then I stepped closer.
“I don’t want to repair you.”
Something shifted in his face.
“Good.”
“I would fail.”
“Probably.”
“You’re infuriating.”
“So I’ve heard.”
I smiled.
“I want you to decide what kind of man you are without me.”
“And after I decide?”
“We’ll see.”
He nodded.
Fair.
Then he kissed me.
Not like the movies.
No dramatic music.
No rain.
No gunfire.
Just one quiet kiss on a Chicago sidewalk.
When we separated, he whispered, “For the record, I decided before this.”
“What?”
“That I wanted out.”
“Out of what?”
“The parts of my family business that create people like Anthony.”
I searched his face.
“For Luca?”
“For myself.”
That mattered.
“For you,” he added, “I’m trying to become someone who deserves a second date.”
I laughed.
“This is not our first date.”
“We haven’t had one.”
“You kidnapped me.”
“That was not a date.”
“Good clarification.”
Our first actual date happened three nights later.
A small Italian restaurant.
No bodyguards at the table.
Rafael sat two tables away pretending badly not to watch us.
Dominic ordered wine.
I ordered pasta.
For almost forty minutes, we talked about normal things.
Then a man approached our table.
Dominic immediately stiffened.
The man raised his hands.
“Easy.”
He looked familiar.
Then I recognized him.
Charles Hanley.
The patient whose life I had saved before being fired.
His wife stood behind him.
Two teenagers beside her.
His children.
Charles looked at me.
“I needed to meet you.”
I stood.
He hugged me.
Tightly.
“Thank you.”
I didn’t know what to say.
His wife cried.
The children thanked me too.
Dominic watched.
After they left, he looked at me differently.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“No, what?”
“I understand now.”
“What?”
“Why you ran toward Luca instead of away from us.”
“That’s the job.”
“No.”
He shook his head.
“That’s you.”
For once, I had no sarcastic answer.
Three months passed.
The clinic became real.
A nonprofit trauma and urgent-care center serving neighborhoods where emergency access was limited.
Charles Hanley donated.
So did several former Lakeview doctors.
Dominic donated anonymously through a legitimate foundation.
I pretended not to know.
Emily returned to nursing after cooperating fully with investigators.
We weren’t the same friends we had been.
Maybe we never would be.
But we talked.
Michael rented an apartment near mine.
He learned that texting twelve times a day was excessive.
Eventually.
Luca began walking normally again.
He proudly sent me a video of himself taking ten steps without assistance.
Then another message.
Don’t tell Dom, but I’m moving to California.
I called immediately.
“You’re what?”
“I need distance.”
“From him?”
“From all of it.”
That I understood.
“What will you do?”
“College.”
I smiled.
“For?”
“Emergency medicine.”
I almost dropped the phone.
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope.”
“Luca Romano, you hate hospitals.”
“I hate being a patient.”
He paused.
“You made the rest look kind of meaningful.”
That might have been the best compliment I ever received.
Everything seemed to be healing.
Then six months after the warehouse arrests, Dominic received a letter.
No return address.
Inside was one photograph.
Anthony Romano.
Not in prison.
Standing beside an ambulance.
May you like
And written beneath it:
YOU NEVER ASKED WHO HELPED HIM ESCAPE.
