Chapter 19 - The Last Choice of Vincent Moretti
Renato’s arrest did not solve everything.
Real life was inconvenient that way.
Federal investigations continued.
Belladonna Holdings faced audits.
Arthur Bellini was indicted.
Paolo Santoro entered protective custody and gave a complete statement.
Carlo admitted concealing evidence after Dominic’s death.
Luca cooperated.
Marco cooperated.
Vivian faced assault charges for what she had done to me.
And Vincent faced his own crimes.
“You could fight them,” I said.
We sat in the library six weeks after the engagement party.
The broken window had been replaced.
The bloodred wine stain was gone.
The riding crop was still in police evidence.
Vincent looked at the agreement his attorneys had negotiated.
“I could.”
“You could probably reduce everything.”
“Yes.”
“You could hide behind the cooperation you already gave.”
“Yes.”
“Are you going to?”
“No.”
I studied him.
“Why?”
He looked toward a photograph of Elena.
“Because she was right.”
“About?”
“The throne.”
He signed.
Vincent agreed to full cooperation.
Resign from operational control.
Surrender assets linked to criminal activity.
Accept legal consequences for conduct prosecutors could prove.
Belladonna Holdings would remain under a new transparent board.
I would retain my voting interest.
I hated that part.
Eleanor loved it.
“You can sell later,” she said.
“Why not now?”
“Because half the company is still terrified of you.”
“I served mini quiches two months ago.”
“Fear evolves.”
I groaned.
We created an employee trust.
Not charity.
Ownership.
A portion of future profits would go to employees across hotels, restaurants, hospitals, and service businesses.
The first proposal I made concerned contracted workers.
Temporary staff would receive the same workplace protections as permanent employees.
Vincent read it.
Then looked at me.
“For obvious reasons?”
“For painfully obvious reasons.”
It passed unanimously.
Vivian pleaded guilty to assault.
No dramatic trial.
She accepted probation, mandatory community service, therapy, and a significant civil settlement.
I directed the settlement money into a legal defense fund for low-wage hospitality workers.
Vivian did not object.
The last time we met, she looked different.
Not poor.
Not transformed into a saint.
Just stripped of certainty.
“I used to think apologizing meant I deserved forgiveness,” she said.
“And now?”
“I think it means admitting the other person owes you nothing.”
I nodded.
“That’s better.”
“Do you forgive me?”
“No.”
She absorbed it.
Then nodded.
“Okay.”
I respected her more in that moment than I ever had before.
Carlo visited my father’s grave every Sunday.
One day I joined him.
Dominic’s grave had his real name.
At least one thing had.
Carlo brought two coffees.
“You take sugar?”
“Two.”
“Dominic took four.”
“That is horrifying.”
“He had terrible taste.”
“My mother loved him.”
“She had terrible taste too.”
We laughed.
Then cried.
Family, I learned, could do both.
Renato’s trial began nine months later.
The evidence was overwhelming.
He would likely spend the rest of his life in prison.
I attended only the first day.
When he saw me, he smiled.
I did not.
That seemed to bother him.
Good.
Vincent received a shorter sentence because of his prior cooperation and the extensive information he provided afterward.
Before reporting, he came to my apartment.
Yes.
My apartment.
I still lived there.
For a while.
He looked around.
“You own several buildings nicer than this.”
“I like my landlord.”
“You complained about him last week.”
“I like complaining about my landlord.”
Vincent smiled.
Then handed me a small box.
Inside was the black enamel locket.
Police had returned it.
I stared at it.
“I thought it belonged in evidence.”
“Not anymore.”
I lifted it.
The green stone caught the light.
“So much trouble for something so small.”
Vincent sat.
“My mother gave that to Elena when she was sixteen.”
“Vittoria?”
“Yes.”
“What did she tell her?”
“That jewelry is only valuable when the person wearing it is.”
I smiled.
“I really wish I had met her.”
“She would have terrified you.”
“Impossible.”
He laughed.
Then became serious.
“I’ll be gone for a while.”
“I know.”
“You don’t have to visit.”
“That sounds suspiciously like an order.”
“It isn’t.”
“Good.”
I placed the locket around my neck.
“Because I’ll decide.”
He nodded.
Then looked toward the photographs of my mother.
“Do you think she would forgive me?”
I thought about it.
“No.”
He blinked.
I continued.
“I think she would expect you to become someone who no longer needed her forgiveness.”
Vincent looked at me.
Then smiled sadly.
“Definitely Elena’s daughter.”
He stood.
At the door, I stopped him.
“Uncle Vincent.”
He turned.
It was the first time I had called him that.
His face changed.
Just a little.
“Come home better.”
He nodded.
“I’ll try.”
After he left, I opened my mother’s sewing box one final time.
I thought it was empty.
It wasn’t.
Beneath the wedding ring was a tiny folded scrap of paper I had somehow missed.
My mother’s handwriting.
Three words.
Choose your name.
I sat there for a long time.
Nora Rossi.
Nora Moretti.
Nora DeMarco.
Everyone wanted blood to answer the question.
My mother knew better.
The next morning, I signed my first permanent Belladonna board document.
Name:
May you like
Nora Elena Rossi.
I kept hers.
