Chapter 8 - THE THINGS MONEY COULD NOT FIX
Carlo Bell was denied bail.
Anthony Bell was arrested in Zurich and extradited three weeks later.
Moretti Global survived the investigation, though half its logistics division was rebuilt from the ground up.
Vincent testified before a federal grand jury.
Nobody in Chicago could remember the last time he voluntarily answered questions under oath.
My mother improved.
Slowly.
The bridge therapy worked well enough that she was reevaluated for transplant.
Six weeks after the warehouse, her physician walked into the room smiling.
“You’re active on the list.”
Mom stared at him.
I started crying before she did.
Vincent happened to be visiting.
He immediately looked uncomfortable.
“Why is everyone crying?”
Mom threw a tissue box at him.
He caught it.
“Because normal people have feelings.”
“I have feelings.”
“You throw cups.”
“That was one time.”
I looked at him.
“One memorable time.”
He glared.
But he had changed.
Not completely.
Vincent Moretti was still terrifying to almost everyone.
He still made grown men sweat during meetings.
He still controlled businesses I preferred not to understand.
But he had stopped entering my mother’s hospital room with guards.
He brought books instead.
Bad ones.
Old crime novels.
Mom insulted his taste.
He returned anyway.
Matteo returned more often.
We tried to pretend the warehouse kiss had been caused by adrenaline.
That lasted four days.
Then he asked me to dinner.
“I can’t afford wherever you eat.”
“I’m paying.”
“No.”
“Emily.”
“No.”
He sighed.
“Fine. Somewhere you can afford.”
We ate hot dogs standing outside a place near Wrigleyville.
Matteo wore a five-thousand-dollar coat while mustard dripped onto his sleeve.
I laughed for ten minutes.
He kissed me afterward.
That one had nothing to do with adrenaline.
Dating Matteo Moretti was complicated.
Photographers discovered us.
The internet decided I was either Cinderella or a gold digger.
One headline called me THE WAITRESS WHO TAMED THE MOB PRINCE.
I hated that one enough to frame it.
Matteo hated the attention more.
He offered private security.
I agreed to one plainclothes person near Mom’s hospital after someone mailed me a dead flower.
Progress.
Reuben’s insurance paid for the diner.
Mostly because Moretti Health had recently become extremely motivated to handle claims correctly.
He decided not to reopen.
“I’m sixty-three,” he said. “I’m done making eggs for drunks at two in the morning.”
“What will you do?”
“Florida.”
“You hate Florida.”
“I hate Chicago winter more.”
Then he handed me an envelope.
Inside was the lease transfer for the diner’s old location.
I stared.
“What is this?”
“You always said you’d run the place better.”
“I don’t have money.”
“You’ve got the insurance payout share.”
“No, you do.”
“I owned the building too.”
I looked up.
Reuben smiled.
“Take the lease.”
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
Because every opportunity in my life suddenly felt suspicious.
Because I had spent years surviving.
Because wanting something was dangerous when losing it could destroy you.
Matteo stood beside me.
He said nothing.
That helped.
Finally I asked Reuben, “What would rent be?”
He named a number.
Reasonable.
Not charity.
Not free.
A real contract.
I looked at Matteo.
“Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You’re thinking about offering money.”
“I am.”
“No.”
“Understood.”
Reuben looked between us.
“You two are exhausting.”
Three months later, CARTER’S opened.
Not a luxury café.
Not a Moretti investment.
A neighborhood diner with better coffee.
That part mattered.
I took a small-business loan.
Matteo helped me review the contract but never cosigned.
Vincent wanted to buy the building.
I threatened him with a saucepan.
He backed down.
Opening morning, Mom sat in a wheelchair near the register with portable oxygen.
Stronger.
Still waiting for lungs.
Vincent entered at six fifteen.
The entire diner went quiet.
Old habits.
He sat at the counter.
I walked over.
“What?”
“Coffee.”
I narrowed my eyes.
“How would you like to ask?”
His expression darkened.
Matteo sat two stools away, trying desperately not to smile.
Vincent looked around.
Everyone was watching.
He sighed.
“May I have a cup of fresh coffee, please?”
The diner erupted in applause.
Vincent looked murderous.
I poured it.
“Careful. It’s hot.”
“Very funny.”
He drank.
I waited.
“Well?”
He looked at the cup.
“Acceptable.”
“Get out.”
Mom laughed so hard she coughed.
That afternoon, Matteo found me in the storage room.
“You’re happy.”
It was not a question.
I looked around.
Shelves.
Coffee boxes.
Paper napkins.
Ordinary things.
“Yes.”
He leaned against the door.
“You know, I can remember the exact second I started falling for you.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“Warehouse?”
“No.”
“Hospital?”
“No.”
“Hot dog?”
“No.”
“Then when?”
“The diner.”
I stared.
“You walked in after your father nearly brained me with a coffee mug.”
“Exactly.”
“That was romantic to you?”
“You looked at me like you were deciding whether the whole family needed to be removed.”
“I was.”
He smiled.
“What about you?”
“When did I fall for you?”
He nodded.
I thought about it.
Then answered honestly.
“When you didn’t try to fix me.”
His expression softened.
“Most people with money see a problem and reach for money.”
“You yell if I do.”
“Effective training.”
He moved closer.
“I wanted to fix things.”
“I know.”
“But you needed someone to stand beside you.”
“Yes.”
His hand touched mine.
“And now?”
“Now you can buy dinner.”
“Growth.”
I smiled.
Then his expression became serious.
“I love you.”
The room went quiet.
There it was.
Simple.
No expensive setting.
No ring.
No audience.
My heart started pounding.
Matteo continued.
“You don’t have to say it because I said it.”
I laughed softly.
“That sounds like therapy.”
“My therapist is very expensive.”
“Of course.”
I touched his face.
“I love you too.”
His eyes closed briefly.
Then he kissed me.
Outside the storage room, something crashed.
Vincent’s voice followed.
“I did not drop it.”
Mom shouted, “You absolutely dropped it!”
Matteo rested his forehead against mine.
“Our parents are becoming friends.”
“Don’t say that.”
“It’s happening.”
“It’s horrifying.”
He smiled.
For the first time, I understood something.
A happy life did not arrive after every problem disappeared.
Mom was still sick.
Matteo’s family was still complicated.
Vincent was still Vincent.
I was still afraid of debt.
Still opened bills too quickly.
Still woke some nights expecting a hospital call.
But happiness had begun showing up anyway.
In coffee.
In laughter.
In Matteo.
In my mother’s stronger voice.
Then, two weeks later, the transplant center called.
And everything changed again.
May you like
They had lungs.
For Grace Carter.
