Chapter 7 - MY FATHER’S LAST NIGHT
I listened to my father die without hearing the moment death actually came.
That somehow made it worse.
The recording began inside his car.
Windshield wipers.
Traffic.
Dad breathing too quickly.
Then his voice.
“If this recorder survives and I don’t, my name is Elias Clarke.”
My hands tightened around Dominic’s.
I had reached for him without thinking.
Neither of us acknowledged it.
Dad continued.
“Enzo knows I copied the accounts.”
A car horn sounded.
“I’m heading to meet Dominic. I haven’t told him because I don’t know who inside Moretti security is compromised.”
Dominic closed his eyes.
He had waited twelve years wondering why Dad never arrived.
Now he knew.
The recording continued.
“There’s a car behind me.”
A pause.
“Black Lincoln. Peter Rinaldi.”
My mother began crying.
She sat across the conference room from us.
Marco stood near the door.
Lily beside him.
Dad’s voice became sharper.
“He’s getting closer.”
Tires hissed against wet pavement.
Then another sound.
Impact.
Mom covered her face.
Dominic’s hand tightened around mine.
Dad swore.
Another impact.
“I’m calling 911.”
A phone tone.
Nothing.
“No signal.”
The recording shook.
Then Dad’s voice became strangely calm.
“If Emma ever hears this…”
I stopped breathing.
“I’m sorry I missed so much while chasing numbers that should never have mattered more than you.”
Tears ran down my face.
“You are going to do something important someday, Emmy. Not because of me. Not because of anybody’s name. Because you notice what other people ignore.”
My chest broke open.
“You always did.”
The recording ended after another crash.
No final scream.
No goodbye.
Just static.
For twelve years, Dad’s death had been a closed door.
Now someone had opened it.
Behind the door was pain.
But also truth.
Enzo was charged with conspiracy, fraud, bribery, attempted murder, and multiple offenses connected to Dad’s death and the death of Dominic’s father.
Peter Rinaldi agreed to cooperate.
The doctor who falsified Dominic’s father’s cause of death had retired in Florida.
He was arrested two days later.
North Shore Freight became the center of a federal investigation that spread through half a dozen Moretti companies.
Dominic did something nobody expected.
He opened the books.
All of them.
Legitimate business.
Questionable business.
Everything.
Marco stared at him when he gave the instruction.
“You understand what that means.”
“Yes.”
“You may lose companies.”
“Yes.”
“Licenses.”
“Yes.”
“People may go to prison.”
Dominic looked toward me.
“If we only expose Enzo’s crimes because they hurt us, then we learned nothing.”
That was the moment I finally understood what Dad had seen in him.
Not innocence.
Dominic Moretti had never been innocent.
But he had the capacity to choose differently.
That mattered.
Three weeks after New Year’s Eve, I resigned.
Dominic read my letter once.
Then again.
“No.”
I stared across his desk.
“That isn’t how resignation works.”
“You cannot resign.”
“I absolutely can.”
“Why?”
“Because you love me.”
His face became blank.
I almost smiled.
“That sounded more arrogant than I intended.”
“Much more.”
“But I can’t figure out what I feel while I’m collecting your dry cleaning and managing your lunch reservations.”
“You have never collected my dry cleaning.”
“Not the point.”
He put the letter down.
“What do you want?”
“To know whether my life is mine.”
His expression changed.
“It is.”
“I need to prove that to myself.”
Silence.
Then he nodded.
“All right.”
No argument.
No money.
No replacement job arranged secretly.
At least I hoped not.
I stood.
“Thank you.”
“Emma.”
I stopped.
“What?”
“You were the best person who ever worked in this office.”
I laughed.
“That is an extremely low bar considering recent events.”
A shadow of a smile crossed his face.
Then I left.
For the first time in two years, I walked out of Moretti Tower without asking whether Dominic needed anything else.
It felt terrifying.
It also felt wonderful.
I spent a month doing almost nothing productive.
I helped Mom clean Dad’s old office.
I forgave Lily slowly.
That required several dinners, a lot of shouting, and one bottle of wine I refuse to discuss.
She moved out.
Then moved back in three weeks later because neither of us could afford the rent increase alone without being annoyed.
This time she paid her own portion.
Dominic was not involved.
I checked.
Twice.
I began interviewing.
Compliance firms.
Corporate investigations.
Legal consulting.
Apparently two years working for Dominic Moretti made recruiters very interested and very nervous.
Then one afternoon, a nonprofit specializing in financial-crime whistleblowers offered me a job.
Director of operations.
Lower salary than Moretti Tower.
More meaning.
I accepted.
I told Dominic over coffee.
Our first coffee outside employer-employee boundaries.
“You look happy,” he said.
“I am.”
“I hate the salary.”
“I knew you would.”
“It’s offensive.”
“You are not supplementing it.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Your face did.”
He smiled.
We sat in a small café where nobody cared that Dominic Moretti was worth hundreds of millions.
That was not entirely true.
Three people stared.
One quietly left.
Progress was gradual.
“You haven’t asked me out,” I said.
Dominic nearly choked on his coffee.
“I thought I was supposed to give you space.”
“You were.”
“I am.”
“You’ve given me a month.”
“That is space.”
“For you, maybe.”
He studied me carefully.
“Emma.”
“Yes?”
“If I ask, I need to know you can say no.”
I understood.
Money.
Power.
His reputation.
Our history.
“Yes.”
“Can you?”
I thought about it.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
He looked almost relieved.
“Dinner Friday?”
“No.”
His face fell.
I smiled.
“I’m busy Friday.”
“Oh.”
“Saturday.”
Dominic slowly smiled.
“Saturday.”
Our first date involved no bodyguards at the table.
They were across the street.
I found out later.
I allowed it.
Chicago remained Chicago.
Dinner became another.
Then another.
Dominic could be unexpectedly funny when nobody was terrified of him.
He hated olives.
Loved old jazz.
Could cook exactly one meal: pasta aglio e olio.
He once spent twenty minutes arguing that pigeons were “organized criminals.”
I told him he recognized his own kind.
He laughed for a full minute.
Four months after New Year’s Eve, Dominic kissed me for the first time.
On my mother’s porch.
After carrying six boxes of Dad’s files into the basement.
No snow.
No danger.
No audience.
He stopped before touching me.
“Can I?”
I smiled.
“Yes.”
The kiss was gentle.
Which surprised me.
Dominic Moretti did almost nothing gently.
When he pulled back, I whispered:
“That took you long enough.”
“I waited twelve years.”
My smile disappeared.
“Don’t say things like that.”
“Why?”
“Because then I might kiss you again.”
“I see no downside.”
So I did.
And for the first time since Dad died, I looked toward a future without feeling like loving it would betray the past.
Then Dominic’s phone rang.
Marco.
Dominic answered.
His expression changed.
“What?”
I stepped closer.
“What happened?”
He lowered the phone.
“Enzo wants to see us.”
“Us?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Dominic looked almost confused.
May you like
“He says Elias left him one final message.”
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