Chapter 5 - The Rules of Seeing My Own Son
The first time I visited Gabriel after the hospital, I arrived twenty minutes early.
Then sat in my car for eighteen minutes because Isabella had told me noon.
Not 11:42.
Noon.
At 11:59, I walked toward the small coastal house where she had been living.
It was nothing like the Moretti mansion.
White siding.
Blue shutters.
A porch with two rocking chairs.
Flowers in clay pots.
For eight months, my wife had lived there while I occupied thirty thousand square feet alone.
I knocked.
Isabella opened the door.
She wore jeans and an oversized green sweater.
Gabriel slept against her shoulder.
Every thought left my head.
"Hi."
A brilliant opening from the feared Dante Moretti.
"Hi."
She stepped aside.
I entered.
The house smelled like coffee and baby powder.
No security.
No servants.
No marble.
Photographs covered the walls.
Her mother.
Childhood pictures.
And one framed photograph of Gabriel in the hospital.
I was in the corner of the image.
Not removed.
That mattered.
"Wash your hands."
I obeyed immediately.
Isabella laughed.
"What?"
"I've never seen you follow instructions so fast."
"I've evolved."
"Don't get ambitious."
She handed Gabriel to me.
My son opened one eye.
I stared.
"He got bigger."
"Babies tend to do that."
"I missed four days."
"Tragic."
I sat.
For two hours, I held him, changed one disastrous diaper, and learned that newborns could produce sounds no adult should be capable of making.
Then Gabriel fell asleep on my chest.
Isabella sat across from me with tea.
Neither spoke for a while.
Eventually, I asked, "Are you staying here permanently?"
Her expression changed.
"That's dangerously close to asking where I live."
"I'm sitting in your living room."
"True."
I smiled.
"No pressure."
She looked around.
"I don't know."
"Do you like it?"
"Yes."
"Then stay."
That surprised her.
"The foundation has offices nearby."
"I know."
"How?"
"It's public information."
She narrowed her eyes.
"No tracking."
"No tracking."
"Promise?"
"Yes."
She relaxed.
"Dante."
"What?"
"Have you seen Valentina?"
There it was.
"No."
"Since when?"
"The day after your video."
Her eyes widened slightly.
"Nothing?"
"Nothing private."
"Business?"
"Her family ended the alliance."
"I heard."
"Of course you did."
She smiled.
"People talk."
I looked at Gabriel.
"I should have ended it before you had to ask."
"I never asked."
"I know."
"That's the problem."
I nodded.
"You were waiting for me to choose correctly without supervision."
"Yes."
"And I didn't."
"No."
Silence.
"I don't know how to trust you," she whispered.
I looked at her.
"I know."
"What if you get bored again?"
"I don't know."
She frowned.
"That isn't reassuring."
"I could promise I'll never feel bored, lonely, angry, tempted, or disconnected."
I shook my head.
"But that would be another lie."
Isabella became very still.
"So what can you promise?"
"That feelings won't become permission."
Her eyes changed.
I continued.
"I was tempted and treated temptation like justification. I was unhappy in ways I didn't understand and blamed the marriage instead of examining myself."
I looked at her.
"I can't promise never to struggle."
My voice lowered.
"I can promise I will never again turn struggle into secrecy."
She looked down.
"Therapy?"
"Three times a week."
Her head snapped up.
"You?"
"Unfortunately."
A laugh escaped her.
I smiled.
"Dr. Adler terrifies me."
"Good."
"You're enjoying this."
"Very much."
We began with two visits a week.
Then three.
I rented an apartment twenty minutes away.
No guards inside.
Two remained discreetly nearby because Isabella eventually admitted she preferred some protection for Gabriel.
Compromise.
For three months, we existed in a strange space.
Not married in practice.
Not divorced.
Not lovers.
Co-parents.
Some visits were easy.
Others brutal.
One evening, Gabriel screamed for nearly two hours.
Nothing worked.
I paced.
Isabella looked exhausted.
"Give him to me."
"You've had him all day."
"Dante."
"Take a shower."
She stared.
"I can handle him."
"You can't even soothe yourself."
"I've survived assassination attempts."
"Babies are different."
She laughed tiredly.
Then handed Gabriel over.
For forty minutes, I walked the hallway.
Eventually, he slept.
When Isabella returned, her hair wet, she stopped.
Gabriel rested against my chest.
"You did it."
"Of course."
"He exhausted himself."
"That too."
She smiled.
Something shifted between us.
Not forgiveness.
Familiarity.
The dangerous warmth of remembering how naturally we once fit together.
Then, four months after Gabriel's birth, everything nearly collapsed.
I received a call during dinner.
One of my captains had been attacked.
Serious.
I stood automatically.
"Where are you going?" Isabella asked.
"Hospital."
Her face changed.
I recognized it immediately.
The coat.
The question.
The same pattern.
I stopped.
"You want me to stay?"
She looked surprised.
"This is important."
"So are you."
She stared.
I sat again.
"Tell me."
"No."
"Isabella."
"I'm not asking you to ignore someone who was attacked."
"Then why do you look like that?"
She folded her arms.
"Because I hate that every phone call makes me wonder."
"Wonder what?"
"If you're telling the truth."
Pain.
Pure and deserved.
I placed my phone on the table.
"Come with me."
"What?"
"Hospital."
"You want me to come?"
"Yes."
She shook her head.
"That's ridiculous."
"Then call Luca."
"Why?"
"Verify everything."
"Dante—"
"Trust doesn't grow because I demand it."
I pushed the phone toward her.
"Call."
She didn't.
Instead, tears filled her eyes.
"I hate this."
I moved but stopped before touching her.
"Can I?"
She nodded.
I held her.
For the first time since she left.
Her body shook against mine.
"I hate that I don't know what's real anymore."
"I know."
"I trusted you more than anyone."
"I know."
"You were the person I never questioned."
"I know."
She pushed away.
"Stop saying you know."
"Okay."
"I want to be angry."
"Be angry."
"I want you to suffer."
"I am."
"Not enough."
"Probably not."
She stared.
Then laughed through tears because the answer was absurd.
I smiled sadly.
"Go to the hospital."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
I picked up my phone.
"Keep location sharing on."
I almost laughed.
"Gladly."
That became one of our rules.
Not permanent surveillance.
Temporary transparency.
I shared schedules.
Phone access.
Travel information.
Not because Isabella demanded control.
Because secrecy had destroyed ordinary trust.
If I was rebuilding a bridge, I could not complain about scaffolding.
Months passed.
Gabriel learned to roll over.
Then sit.
Then crawl.
He said "Mama" first.
I pretended not to care.
Isabella enjoyed my suffering.
Then one Sunday morning, he looked directly at me.
"Dada."
I froze.
Isabella covered her mouth.
Gabriel slapped both hands on the floor.
"Dada."
I picked him up.
"Say it again."
He bit my chin.
Close enough.
I cried.
Isabella pretended not to notice until I saw tears on her face too.
That evening, after Gabriel slept, we sat on the porch.
Sunset over the water.
"Come home," I said.
Isabella became still.
I immediately regretted it.
"Not the mansion."
She looked at me.
"I sold it."
"What?"
"Three weeks ago."
Her mouth opened.
"You sold our house?"
"Yes."
"Without telling me?"
"It was legally mine after the restructuring."
"That's not the point."
"You're right."
Old mistake.
I inhaled.
"I should have told you."
"Why did you sell it?"
"Because you were right."
"About?"
"It never felt like a home."
She looked toward the water.
"What did you do with it?"
"A private buyer."
"Who?"
"Hospital foundation."
Her eyes snapped toward mine.
"They're converting it."
"Into what?"
"Residential housing for families of children receiving long-term cancer treatment."
Isabella stared.
"The ballroom becomes communal dining."
She smiled faintly.
"The east wing becomes family suites."
"Our bedroom?"
"Administration."
She laughed.
Good.
Then I said, "I bought nothing else."
Her smile faded.
"I don't want to choose the next home alone."
Silence.
"I shouldn't have said come home."
I looked at her.
"I should have said—"
My voice caught unexpectedly.
"Would you ever consider building another one with me?"
Isabella's eyes filled.
"I don't know."
I nodded.
"Okay."
"But."
Hope moved dangerously.
She looked at me.
"Ask me again someday."
I stopped breathing.
Not yes.
May you like
But not no.
For the first time since she disappeared, tomorrow felt like something I was allowed to imagine.
