Chapter 8 - The Trial of Victor Moretti
Victor's trial began fourteen months after Daniel's remains were found.
By then, the world had changed.
Wyatt was nine.
I had moved from our old apartment into a modest three-bedroom house on the northwest side.
Not bought with Dominic's money.
Not bought with Angelo's trust.
I had used my salary, savings, and a first-time homebuyer program.
The down payment was small.
The mortgage was real.
The pride was enormous.
When I received the keys, I sat in the empty kitchen and cried.
Dominic found me there.
“You okay?”
“I own a refrigerator space.”
He stared at me.
“What?”
“This space is mine.”
“Technically the bank—”
“Don't ruin it.”
He shut up.
Dominic rented an apartment nearby.
We were together.
Seriously.
But he did not move into my house.
That was my decision.
After years of losing control over my life, I needed a home that belonged first to Wyatt and me.
Dominic respected that.
Most of the time.
He complained about my terrible couch.
I told him to buy his own.
He did.
Elena represented Dominic in several remaining civil matters and became one of my closest friends.
Mrs. Alvarez moved into a better apartment after her building was sold.
Pastor Samuel finally replaced St. Michael's ancient heating system using anonymous donations that absolutely did not come from Dominic, according to Dominic.
Nobody believed him.
Victor faced charges for Daniel's murder, conspiracy related to Luca's death, financial crimes, witness intimidation, and obstruction.
The prosecution's case was enormous.
I still feared he would somehow walk free.
Men like Victor build entire lives around avoiding consequences.
The trial lasted seven weeks.
I testified on the fourth.
Victor watched me from the defense table.
He looked smaller than the man who confronted me outside the church.
Not weak.
Human.
That mattered.
Fear becomes more manageable when monsters become ordinary men making choices.
The prosecutor showed Daniel's forged goodbye letter.
“Mrs. Miller, had you ever seen this before?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Three days after my husband disappeared.”
“What did you believe?”
“That he abandoned us.”
“For how long did you believe that?”
“Five years.”
My voice broke.
I steadied it.
“What effect did that have on your son?”
Victor's attorney objected.
The judge limited the question.
I described the financial pressure from Lakefront Recovery.
The surveillance.
The anonymous complaint to child services.
Then the prosecutor played Angelo's recording.
Victor's voice filled the courtroom.
I killed Daniel because he threatened everything.
No amount of expensive tailoring could hide from those words.
The defense claimed Victor spoke metaphorically.
He meant destroyed Daniel's career.
Destroyed his credibility.
Not physically killed.
Then Frank testified.
He admitted helping move Daniel's body after Victor struck him with a metal flashlight during an argument.
According to Frank, Victor did not initially intend to kill Daniel.
Daniel refused to reveal where Luca's records were hidden.
Victor hit him.
Daniel fell against the edge of a loading platform.
He never regained consciousness.
Victor panicked.
Then chose concealment over emergency help.
The pattern was almost unbearable.
Angelo chose silence.
Victor chose concealment.
Dominic once chose violence.
Every man in that family had reached a moment where truth demanded a price.
Only some eventually paid it.
Frank testified that Victor ordered Daniel's body hidden in the maintenance pit.
The fake note was created from samples of Daniel's handwriting.
The wedding ring had been copied by a jeweler who later identified Victor's assistant.
The case was no longer circumstantial.
The most painful testimony came from Dominic.
Victor's attorney attacked him for nearly four hours.
“You benefited from your uncle's prosecution, didn't you?”
“No.”
“You became the primary Moretti heir.”
“I forfeited most of the assets.”
“You control remaining family companies.”
“Independent trustees control them.”
“You hated your uncle.”
“Yes.”
That answer surprised the courtroom.
The attorney smiled.
“So you admit bias.”
Dominic looked at Victor.
“I hated him after I learned he murdered my brother and Daniel Miller.”
“Exactly.”
“Hatred doesn't create bank records.”
The prosecutor objected to the argument.
The judge sustained.
The defense continued.
“You committed violent acts yourself.”
“Yes.”
“You extorted businessmen.”
“Yes.”
“You lied for your father.”
“Yes.”
“You went to prison.”
“Yes.”
“So why should this jury trust you?”
Dominic paused.
“They shouldn't.”
The courtroom became still.
The attorney frowned.
Dominic continued.
“They should trust the recordings, security footage, bank transfers, DNA evidence, phone records, and witnesses that exist whether I'm good or bad.”
I thought about Daniel's courage.
Different men.
Same truth.
Evidence does not need saints.
Victor was convicted on every major count.
Murder.
Conspiracy.
Financial crimes.
Obstruction.
The judge later sentenced him to life imprisonment with no realistic chance of release.
When the verdict was read, I expected relief.
Instead, I felt empty.
Daniel remained dead.
Luca remained dead.
Justice is not resurrection.
Outside the courthouse, reporters shouted questions.
I ignored them.
Dominic took my hand.
We walked three blocks before speaking.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“No.”
“Me neither.”
We sat on a bench near the river.
For years, I imagined that if I ever learned what happened to Daniel, something inside me would settle.
It did not settle.
It changed.
There is a difference.
I knew the truth.
I knew he loved us.
I knew he tried to come home.
That mattered.
But grief remained grief.
“I want Wyatt to know Daniel as more than a murder victim,” I said.
Dominic nodded.
“So tell him everything else.”
“I don't remember everything.”
“Write what you do.”
That became a project.
Daniel's Book.
Wyatt and I built it together.
Photographs.
Stories.
His favorite terrible joke.
The recipe for pancakes he always burned.
The time he drove three hours back from a work trip because I had the flu.
His habit of singing the wrong lyrics to every song.
We included the hard part too.
Daniel was brave.
Daniel was stubborn.
Daniel investigated dangerous men without telling his wife enough.
Love did not require making him perfect.
Dominic contributed one page.
I did not read it until Wyatt showed me.
Daniel,
I did not know you well enough while you were alive.
I know you through the people who loved you.
You protected my brother's truth when my family failed him.
I will spend the rest of my life trying to deserve the trust you placed in my name.
I cannot replace you for Wyatt.
I will never try.
But if Grace allows me to stay in their lives, I will protect the space you still occupy.
—Dominic
I cried so hard Wyatt panicked.
“Mom!”
“I'm fine.”
“You're doing the face.”
“What face?”
“The crying face where you say you're fine.”
Dominic laughed from the kitchen.
“She's famous for it.”
I threw a dish towel at him.
A month after Victor's conviction, Lakefront Recovery Services was dissolved.
My old medical debt was legally canceled after regulators found illegal collection practices.
The refund from excessive payments wasn't huge.
$3,842.
When the check arrived, I stared at it.
Five years earlier, that amount would have changed everything.
Now I deposited it into the single-parent emergency fund.
We named the fund Stay.
Not after Dominic.
Not after Daniel.
After the prayer.
Someone who'll stay.
The fund paid for car repairs, rent emergencies, utility bills, school shoes, and grocery cards.
The first woman we helped was named Kayla.
Her transmission failed.
She had two children and worked nights at a nursing home.
The repair cost $1,900.
When we told her the grant would cover it, she cried.
“I don't know how to repay you.”
I understood that sentence.
“You don't.”
“But—”
“Someday somebody else will need help. If you can, help them.”
She hugged me.
On the drive home, Dominic said, “You finally accepted help.”
“What?”
“You turned it into a system so nobody feels like they owe someone.”
I looked at him.
“That sounds like criticism.”
“Admiration.”
“Careful.”
He smiled.
Our relationship became ordinary.
That was my favorite part.
Dominic snored lightly.
He hated mushrooms.
He left cabinet doors open.
He owned seventeen nearly identical white shirts.
He drank terrible espresso.
He was not always calm.
Sometimes old instincts returned when he felt threatened.
We argued.
Once badly.
A driver almost hit Wyatt in a parking lot.
Dominic dragged the man from the car.
He did not hit him.
But he scared him.
I was furious.
“You don't get to teach Wyatt that fear solves everything.”
“He almost hit him.”
“I know.”
“I reacted.”
“You chose.”
That word stopped him.
Choice.
The judge's word.
Daniel's story.
His father's excuse.
Dominic apologized to Wyatt.
Then he found the driver and apologized to him too.
He came home afterward.
“That was humiliating.”
“Good.”
“You enjoy accountability too much.”
“Probably.”
He kissed my forehead.
“I still came home.”
That became our quiet language.
Not romantic declarations.
Not forever.
I still came home.
Two years after Dominic first heard my prayer, he asked Wyatt for permission to propose.
I learned about it later.
Wyatt apparently responded:
“You don't need permission. Mom hates when men decide stuff for her.”
Correct.
Then Wyatt added:
“But if she says yes, can I hold the ring?”
Also correct.
Dominic proposed at St. Michael's.
Last pew.
Of course.
I stared at him.
“You planned this?”
“Yes.”
“Manipulative.”
“A little.”
He didn't kneel immediately.
Instead, he sat beside me.
“Two years ago, I heard you ask God for someone who would stay.”
My face heated.
“I told you never to mention that.”
“This is the exception.”
“I disagree.”
He smiled.
Then became serious.
“I can't promise I will never leave a room angry.”
“Good.”
“I can't promise life won't get hard.”
“Good.”
“I can't promise you'll never be scared.”
My eyes filled.
“But I can promise you will always know where I stand.”
He took out the ring.
“And if I have to leave, you will know why, where I'm going, and whether I'm coming back.”
Tears blurred the church windows.
He finally knelt.
“Grace Miller, will you marry me?”
From behind a pillar, Wyatt yelled:
“Say yes!”
I laughed through tears.
“Were you hiding?”
He stepped out.
“Maybe.”
I looked at Dominic.
“Yes.”
Wyatt ran forward holding a phone.
“I recorded it.”
I stared at him.
“For what?”
“Grandma Moretti.”
I froze.
“His mother?”
Dominic closed his eyes.
“This became complicated.”
May you like
I laughed harder.
And somewhere beneath that laughter lived every version of me that had once believed happiness belonged to women with easier lives.
