Chapter 8 - The Man Everyone Thought Was Broken
Adrian Vitali's arrest shattered the illusion holding my world together.
Men who had spent years calling him respectable suddenly claimed they had always suspected him.
Cowards were remarkably gifted historians.
Don Ferretti requested a meeting.
I agreed.
We met in the same garden where my wedding had collapsed.
He arrived without guards.
I brought Clara.
Ferretti saw her and stopped.
For the first time, the old man's confidence disappeared.
“Clara.”
She said nothing.
“My granddaughter?”
“Safe.”
“I want to see her.”
“No.”
Pain flickered across his face.
“You don't have the right to keep her from me.”
Clara stepped closer.
“You ordered men to terrorize us.”
“I was looking for Marco's evidence.”
“You threatened your granddaughter.”
“I never ordered anyone to hurt Rosie.”
“Yet people working for you did.”
Ferretti had no answer.
Then Clara delivered the sentence he deserved.
“Being her grandfather doesn't make you her family.”
The old man looked twenty years older.
He left without meeting Rosie.
I understood Clara's decision.
Family wasn't blood.
Enzo had taught me that.
So had Rosie.
Maybe Clara had too.
My rehabilitation became public several weeks later.
I hated every second.
Cameras gathered outside the medical center when I walked thirty-seven steps with braces.
Headlines called it miraculous.
It wasn't.
It was painful, humiliating work.
There were mornings when my legs refused to cooperate.
Afternoons when frustration made me throw the cane.
One evening, Clara found me alone in the rehabilitation room.
I had fallen.
“Don't.”
She stopped.
“Don't what?”
“Help me.”
She crossed her arms.
“Fine.”
I tried standing.
Failed.
Again.
Failed.
Again.
My arms shook.
“Damn it.”
Clara remained against the wall.
“You done?”
“No.”
“Good.”
I looked at her.
Most people encouraged me with softness.
Clara gave me stubbornness.
I tried again.
This time I stood.
She smiled.
I took one step.
Then another.
Then my knee buckled.
Clara caught me.
Our faces were inches apart.
Neither moved.
“Now can I help?”
I looked into her eyes.
“Yes.”
She helped me onto the bench.
But she didn't release my hand.
“Clara.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“No.”
I laughed softly.
Then I kissed her.
Slowly.
Carefully.
I expected guilt.
Instead, I felt something terrifyingly close to peace.
Clara pulled away first.
“We shouldn't.”
“Probably not.”
“You were supposed to marry someone else six weeks ago.”
“I noticed.”
“And I work for you.”
“Not anymore.”
Her eyebrows lifted.
“Did you just fire me?”
“Yes.”
She stared.
I smiled.
“You're terrible at romance.”
“I've had limited practice.”
She laughed.
Then kissed me again.
From the doorway came a gasp.
Rosie.
We separated.
She stared at us.
Then her entire face lit up.
“I knew it!”
Clara covered her face.
“Rosie.”
“What?”
“You're supposed to knock.”
“I did.”
“No, you didn't.”
Rosie ignored her and looked at me.
“Are you marrying Mommy?”
I nearly choked.
Clara stood.
“Bed. Now.”
“But—”
“Rosie.”
She marched away dramatically.
At the doorway she turned.
“Mr. Lorenzo?”
“Yes?”
“If you marry Mommy, I don't have to marry you anymore.”
“That's reassuring.”
She nodded.
“Because you're too old for me.”
Clara laughed so hard she had to sit down.
I stared after Rosie.
“I survived an assassination attempt for this.”
Clara wiped tears from her eyes.
“You'll recover.”
I watched her laugh.
And I realized I wanted to hear that sound inside my house for the rest of my life.
But happiness had made me careless once before.
The next morning, Enzo brought me a package.
No return address.
Inside was a photograph of Clara and Rosie leaving the rehabilitation center.
A red X had been drawn across Clara's face.
May you like
Underneath were four words.
ADRIAN WASN'T WORKING ALONE.
