Chapter 9 - Table Twelve
Giovanni's became ours.
Not as another luxury investment.
As a foundation headquarters.
The upper floors were converted into offices for a nonprofit helping families drowning in medical debt.
The restaurant remained downstairs.
Table Twelve remained exactly where it had always been.
On opening night, my mother sat there.
She was seventy-two now.
Her cancer had been in remission for more than a decade.
She raised her glass.
“To dusty chandeliers.”
I laughed.
Salvatore frowned.
“I still don't understand why you were looking at the chandelier.”
“Because my feet hurt.”
“You should have sat down.”
“You ordered me to.”
“And look how well that worked.”
Our daughter Elena, now ten, groaned.
“Dad, you've told this story a thousand times.”
“You'll hear it a thousand more.”
Anthony, eight, leaned toward his sister.
“He's old. Old people repeat stuff.”
Silence.
I covered my mouth.
Luca choked on wine.
Sofia turned away, shoulders shaking.
Salvatore stared at his son.
“Anthony.”
“Yes, Dad?”
“I control your inheritance.”
Anthony considered this.
“You look very young.”
The table exploded.
Even Salvatore laughed.
At seventy-five, he had changed.
He used a cane occasionally.
His hair was almost entirely white.
His criminal empire existed mostly in documentaries and rumors.
He spent his mornings taking Elena to school and his afternoons annoying nonprofit accountants by personally reviewing expenditures.
He still wore custom suits.
Still terrified dishonest contractors.
Still became absurdly jealous when handsome men spoke to me at fundraisers.
At thirty-seven, I no longer looked like the exhausted waitress from Giovanni's.
I had finished my graduate degree.
Built the foundation with Salvatore.
Raised two children.
And learned that love was less about fireworks than repetition.
Showing up.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Then Matteo wrote from prison.
He had not contacted us in nine years.
The letter was addressed to me.
Salvatore hated that.
“You're not reading it alone.”
“I wasn't planning to.”
We opened it together.
Matteo was dying.
Pancreatic cancer.
He wanted to see Salvatore.
Once.
“No,” my husband said.
I folded the letter.
“Okay.”
He looked suspicious.
“You aren't going to argue?”
“No.”
That bothered him more.
Three days later, he said, “Perhaps I should go.”
I said nothing.
Five days later, “Closure has value.”
Still nothing.
One week later, we drove to the prison hospital.
Matteo looked twenty years older.
Thin.
Weak.
No longer threatening.
Salvatore sat opposite him.
For a long time, neither spoke.
Finally Matteo whispered, “I hated her.”
“I know.”
“Because you loved her more than the empire.”
Salvatore's expression remained unreadable.
“I understand now.”
“Understand what?”
“That was the point.”
Salvatore looked at me through the glass.
Matteo followed his gaze.
“You got out.”
“Yes.”
“I never did.”
Something inside Salvatore softened.
Matteo began crying.
“I’m sorry.”
Salvatore did not say I forgive you.
Not immediately.
Some wounds deserve honesty.
But he reached across the table.
Took Matteo's hand.
And stayed.
Matteo died six weeks later.
Afterward, Salvatore became quieter.
Mortality had always followed us.
Now it sat closer.
One night, I found him at Table Twelve after closing.
He was alone.
I sat beside him.
“Thinking?”
“Dangerous habit.”
“About Matteo?”
“About everyone.”
He looked around the restaurant.
“My father believed legacy was what people feared after you died.”
“And you?”
He smiled faintly.
“I hope he was wrong.”
I took his hand.
“Look upstairs.”
Above us, the foundation had erased more than sixty million dollars in medical debt.
Thousands of families.
People who would never know the full story of the man whose money started it.
“That is your legacy.”
“No.”
He looked at me.
“That is ours.”
Our fifteenth anniversary arrived.
Salvatore turned eighty.
He hated the party.
Specifically, he hated the number-shaped candles.
“Remove them.”
Elena laughed.
“Dad.”
“Remove them.”
“You're eighty.”
“I am aware.”
Anthony whispered, “Sensitive subject.”
Salvatore pointed at him.
“College tuition.”
Anthony immediately removed the candles.
Later that evening, after everyone left, Salvatore and I danced alone inside Giovanni's.
No music at first.
Then I played the song from our wedding.
He moved more slowly now.
So did I.
“Still jealous of Ethan?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“He lives in California.”
“I remain vigilant.”
“Sofia?”
“She prefers Luca.”
“Any other romantic rivals?”
“The cardiologist likes you.”
“He's seventy-three.”
“Exactly. Age appropriate.”
I laughed so hard I rested my forehead against his chest.
His heart beat steadily beneath my cheek.
A heart repaired.
A heart aged.
A heart still here.
“I love you,” I whispered.
His arms tightened.
“More.”
“You can't just declare that.”
“I have more experience.”
“That isn't how love works.”
“I've had thirty-eight additional years to practice.”
I smiled.
Then he stumbled.
Only slightly.
But I felt it.
“Salvatore?”
“I’m fine.”
He wasn't.
The tests came back two days later.
His heart was weakening.
Not an emergency.
Not tomorrow.
But time had finally presented its bill.
The cardiologist explained options.
Medication.
Monitoring.
Possible surgery, though his age complicated it.
I listened.
Salvatore watched me.
That night, he found me crying in the bathroom.
He didn't say don't cry.
He sat on the floor beside me.
At eighty years old, in silk pajamas that cost more than my first car, Salvatore Constantino sat on bathroom tile and held my hand.
“I promised you forever,” he said.
“No. You didn't.”
He looked at me.
“You promised me whatever time we got.”
He smiled sadly.
“Very clever woman.”
“You married me.”
“Yes.”
We sat there until sunrise.
And then we made a decision.
May you like
We were not going to spend whatever remained preparing to lose each other.
We were going to live.
