Chapter 19 - THE LAST MAN STANDINGMatteo Vescari had six weeks left.
The doctors said perhaps eight.
He refused chemotherapy.
Helen refused to forgive him simply because he was dying.
Clara respected that.
Forgiveness was not a deathbed obligation.
But Helen agreed to visit.
Once.
Matteo sat beside Lake Michigan in a wheelchair.
Helen remained standing.
“You look like your mother,” he said.
“I know.”
“I loved her.”
Helen shook her head.
“No.”
Matteo looked up.
“You don’t get to rewrite words because you’re dying.”
Clara watched from a distance with Dominic.
Helen continued.
“You possessed her. You controlled me. You hunted my daughter. You endangered my granddaughter.”
Matteo’s eyes filled.
“What do you want me to say?”
“The truth.”
He looked toward the lake.
Then finally:
“I was afraid of being forgotten.”
Helen nodded.
“That I believe.”
Matteo cried quietly.
No dramatic reconciliation followed.
Helen did not hug him.
She simply sat beside him.
For twenty minutes.
Sometimes mercy was not forgiveness.
Sometimes it was refusing to add cruelty to the end of someone’s life.
Thomas returned to Ohio after recovering.
Helen did not take him back.
Not immediately.
Clara understood.
Thomas had lost fourteen years.
He could not reclaim them with apologies.
So he rented an apartment three blocks away.
He attended physical therapy with Helen.
Carried groceries.
Fixed a leaking sink.
Asked permission before entering.
Dominic found the situation familiar.
Clara teased him mercilessly.
“He’s learning to ask.”
Dominic groaned.
“Please don’t make your father my emotional twin.”
“Too late.”
Meanwhile, the Bellandi organization collapsed.
Luca accepted a plea agreement after discovering several associates had already testified.
Matteo’s legitimate assets were placed into a charitable trust.
Clara refused personal inheritance.
Instead, she created programs for families affected by organized crime.
Dominic contributed anonymously.
Clara found out.
“How?”
“Victor.”
“I’m firing him.”
“You say that weekly.”
“One day I mean it.”
Victor, standing nearby, replied:
“No, you don’t.”
Dominic glared.
Clara laughed.
Life became ordinary again.
Then Matteo died.
Quietly.
Helen was with him.
So was Clara.
Dominic waited outside.
Matteo’s final words were not profound.
He looked at Clara and whispered:
“Your daughter bites.”
Clara laughed through tears.
“Yes.”
“Vescari blood.”
“No.”
She took his hand.
“Her own.”
Matteo smiled.
Then he was gone.
At the funeral, only twelve people attended.
No crime bosses.
No black-car procession.
No show of power.
Just family.
Broken, complicated family.
Afterward, Dominic stood beside Matteo’s grave.
Clara approached.
“You okay?”
“Yes.”
“Lie.”
Dominic sighed.
“I keep thinking about all of them.”
“Who?”
“Our fathers. Matteo. Gallagher.”
He looked at the grave.
“They spent their lives building things everyone else had to survive.”
Clara slipped her hand into his.
“And you?”
“I’m trying to build something my daughter doesn’t have to escape.”
Clara smiled.
“That’s a good start.”
That evening Dominic took Clara to Giovanni’s.
The corner booth had been removed.
She stopped.
“What happened?”
“Renovation.”
“You removed our table?”
“It was structurally compromised.”
“Dominic Russo.”
He smiled.
“Come upstairs.”
The abandoned building next door had finally been renovated.
Clara followed him to the third floor.
Lights came on.
She froze.
An enormous bright room stretched before her.
Paint easels.
Children’s tables.
Shelves of art supplies.
Windows overlooking Chicago.
Clara turned.
“What is this?”
Dominic looked nervous.
“You once told me you wanted to be an art teacher.”
Her throat tightened.
“So?”
“So I bought the building.”
“Dominic.”
“Before you yell, wait.”
“I’m preparing.”
“It belongs to the Jenkins Foundation.”
She stopped.
“Not me?”
“No.”
“Not you?”
“No.”
“For what?”
“Free art programs. After-school care. Scholarships.”
Clara stared around the room.
Dominic continued quickly.
“You don’t have to teach. You don’t have to run it. I just thought—”
She kissed him.
Hard.
Dominic stumbled backward.
When she released him, he looked dazed.
“Is that approval?”
“Maybe.”
“I’ll take maybe.”
Clara walked toward the windows.
On one wall was a small plaque.
THE THOMAS & HELEN JENKINS COMMUNITY ARTS CENTER.
Below it:
NO CHILD SHOULD HAVE TO BECOME SMALLER TO FIT THE WORLD AROUND THEM.
Clara covered her mouth.
Dominic approached carefully.
“Too much?”
She turned.
“You remembered.”
“Everything.”
“No.”
She touched his chest.
“Not everything.”
He frowned.
Clara smiled.
“My birthday is next Thursday.”
Dominic went pale.
Clara burst out laughing.
“I’m joking.”
He stared.
“You are evil.”
“You married me.”
“Under emotional duress.”
She kissed him again.
Outside, Chicago glittered beneath them.
Then Dominic’s phone vibrated.
He checked it.
His expression changed.
Clara sighed.
“What now?”
Dominic slowly turned the screen toward her.
A photograph.
A medical ultrasound.
Clara stared.
Then at Dominic.
Then back at the image.
“What is that?”
Dominic looked equally confused.
A message appeared beneath it.
CONGRATULATIONS, MR. RUSSO.
YOUR WIFE IS PREGNANT.
May you like
Clara whispered:
“I haven’t taken a pregnancy test.”
