Chapter 7 - THE RULE MICHAEL BROKE
Michael didn’t kiss me that night.
That somehow made it worse.
For three days, every glance felt charged.
Every accidental touch lasted too long.
Meanwhile, Tony and Regina remained in federal custody.
The evidence from my father’s vault connected Tony’s operation to extortion, trafficking, bribery and several suspicious deaths.
One was my father’s.
Investigators believed his medication had been deliberately altered.
Regina had facilitated access.
The knowledge broke something in me.
But it also ended years of uncertainty.
My father hadn’t abandoned me.
He had died trying to protect me.
Zach’s procedure was scheduled for the following week.
The night before, I found him beneath his blankets.
“Scared?”
“No.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“Yes.”
I sat beside him.
“So am I.”
“You’re not having surgery.”
“No. But someone I love is.”
He stared at me.
“You love me?”
My throat tightened.
“Very much.”
He smiled.
Then his expression turned mischievous.
“Do you love Dad?”
“That’s bedtime.”
“Aurora.”
“Sleep.”
“I think he loves you.”
“Good night, Zach.”
“He smiles now.”
I paused.
“What?”
“He didn’t before you came.”
The joke vanished from my mouth.
Zach rolled over.
“He used to smile when Mom was alive. I saw pictures.”
I brushed his hair back.
“He misses her.”
“I know.”
“You never have to replace your mom for me.”
Zach looked at me.
“You could be something different.”
I kissed his forehead.
“I’d like that.”
The surgery lasted four hours.
Michael stood at the hospital window almost the entire time.
I stayed beside him.
When the surgeon finally entered and said the procedure had gone beautifully, Michael closed his eyes.
His knees almost gave out.
I caught his hand.
He pulled me against him.
Then he kissed me.
There was no warning.
No dramatic declaration.
Just relief, exhaustion and months—perhaps years—of emotion breaking through a man who had trained himself never to show any.
He pulled away instantly.
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m not.”
He stared.
So I kissed him back.
Later, when Zach woke, his first weak words were:
“Finally.”
Michael laughed.
An actual laugh.
I loved the sound.
And that terrified me.
Because safety had always been temporary in my life.
Happiness felt even more dangerous.
Two weeks later, I began looking for an apartment.
Michael discovered the listings open on my laptop.
“You’re leaving?”
“Eventually.”
“Why?”
“Because I can’t live here forever.”
“You can.”
“That’s not a solution.”
His jaw tightened.
“I thought…”
“What?”
He stopped.
Michael Moretti, feared by half of New York, apparently couldn’t finish one emotional sentence.
“I don’t want to become another person you rescue,” I said.
“You’re not.”
“You gave me a room. Protection. Attorneys. Everything.”
“You saved my son.”
“That doesn’t mean I owe you my life.”
“I never said you did.”
“No. But I need to know I can build one myself.”
He stared at me.
Then nodded.
“You’re right.”
I hadn’t expected that.
Three days later, he drove me to a small apartment in Brooklyn.
It was sunny.
Safe.
Mine.
I found a job helping manage a neighborhood bakery whose owner knew my father.
Michael helped carry one box upstairs.
Then another.
Zach carried one pillow and complained dramatically.
At the doorway, Michael stopped.
“I hate this.”
“I know.”
“I could buy this building.”
“Don’t.”
“I already checked.”
“Michael.”
“Fine.”
I smiled.
Then he kissed my forehead.
“No guards inside.”
“Good.”
“Two outside.”
I glared.
“One.”
“Two.”
“One.”
“Fine.”
I laughed.
He walked away.
For the first time in years, I closed a door without locking it three times.
Then I noticed an envelope beneath it.
No stamp.
No name.
Inside was a photograph of Michael leaving the hospital.
A red X had been drawn across his face.
May you like
On the back were five words.
TONY VALENTI WASN’T THE BOSS.
