Chapter 8 - Eighteen Months Without Him
Sebastian served sixteen months.
Good behavior and cooperation shortened the sentence.
Those months changed all of us.
I opened a new physical therapy clinic with a legitimate loan, not Lombardi money.
We specialized in spinal injuries, chronic neurological conditions, and low-income pediatric respiratory support referrals.
I named it Second Step Rehabilitation.
Sebastian hated the name.
In every letter, he suggested alternatives.
None were better.
Oliver grew two inches.
His breathing improved dramatically after leaving the moldy apartment.
He joined a robotics club.
He wrote Sebastian letters full of diagrams and insults about his chess strategy.
Sebastian wrote back every week.
At the medical facility, he continued rehabilitation.
He progressed from parallel bars to a walker.
Then, on strong days, forearm crutches.
His right leg remained weak.
He would never move normally.
That stopped mattering.
Movement was no longer the miracle.
Choice was.
The biggest surprise came six months into his sentence.
Isabella moved into a small house near us.
Not a mansion.
A house.
She planted roses.
She began therapy.
For the first time, she told the full story of Vittorio's abuse, the threats, and the years she had pretended confusion because she believed he still had people watching.
She had not been entirely well.
Trauma had damaged her.
But she had been far more aware than everyone assumed.
One afternoon, she sat in my kitchen drinking tea.
"He loves you," she said.
I nearly dropped a spoon.
"Subtle."
"He has never been subtle."
"He believes he is."
"Men in our family often confuse silence with mystery."
I laughed.
Then she touched my hand.
"Do not let him rebuild the old world."
"I won't."
"He will be tempted."
"Why?"
"Because power is easier than uncertainty."
That sentence stayed with me.
Vittorio's trial began in spring.
The evidence was overwhelming.
He was convicted on conspiracy, racketeering, attempted murder, bribery, and multiple other charges.
He would likely die in prison.
Daniel testified about the payments he received.
After recovering from the shooting, he withdrew his custody claim.
He began seeing Oliver under supervised arrangements.
Slowly.
Carefully.
I did not forgive him quickly.
Oliver did not need me to.
He only needed the adults around him to stop making him pay for their failures.
One year after Sebastian's surgery, I received a package.
Inside was a video.
Sebastian stood between two rails in the prison rehabilitation room.
No therapist touched him.
He lifted one crutch.
Moved his left foot.
Then his right.
One step.
Another.
Five total.
At the end, he looked at the camera.
"Claire, before you criticize my posture, remember I am incarcerated and emotionally fragile."
I laughed so hard I cried.
Oliver watched it six times.
On the seventh, he said, "He's coming home walking."
"Maybe."
"He is."
Children sometimes have better faith than adults.
Two weeks before Sebastian's release, a former Lombardi associate named Marco Bellini appeared at my clinic.
He had once managed gambling operations for Sebastian.
Now he wore an expensive suit and a smile I did not trust.
"Ms. Bennett."
"Appointment?"
"No."
"Then leave."
He looked around the clinic.
"Nice place."
"Leave."
"Sebastian will need an income when he comes home."
"He has legal businesses."
"Reduced businesses."
I stepped closer.
"What do you want?"
"To remind him the old family is waiting."
"There is no old family."
His smile thinned.
"There is always a family."
I called Gabriel immediately after he left.
Gabriel had gone legitimate too, at least as far as I knew. He now ran security for several companies that had survived federal scrutiny.
"Bellini?" he said. "I'll handle it."
"Legally."
A pause.
"You're no fun."
"Gabriel."
"Legally."
Sebastian came home on a cold March morning.
No cameras.
No convoy.
Just me, Oliver, Isabella, and Gabriel outside the facility.
The door opened.
Sebastian appeared using two forearm crutches.
He had lost weight.
His hair was shorter.
His face looked older.
He stopped when he saw us.
Oliver ran.
"Careful!" I shouted.
Sebastian dropped one crutch just in time to catch him with one arm.
They nearly fell.
Gabriel grabbed both.
Everyone laughed.
Then Sebastian looked at me.
For sixteen months, I had imagined this moment.
In none of my imaginings did I know what to say.
So I walked to him.
He touched my face.
"Hi."
"Hi."
"You look beautiful."
"You look terrible."
"I was in prison."
"Medical prison."
"Still terrible."
I kissed him.
Oliver groaned.
Isabella cried.
Gabriel pretended to check his phone.
Sebastian came home to a different life.
His mansion had been sold as part of forfeiture.
He owned a smaller lakefront house legally purchased through approved assets.
The criminal network was gone.
Most of his old men had scattered.
He had fewer people.
Less money.
Less fear around his name.
At first, I thought that would make him free.
Instead, it made him restless.
At night, he stared at his phone.
Old contacts called.
Marco Bellini called most.
Sebastian never answered.
Then one evening, I found him standing with a walker in the kitchen, furious.
"What happened?"
He handed me the phone.
A photograph showed broken windows at one of his legitimate warehouses.
Below it was a message.
You walked away. We didn't.
I looked at him.
"What are you going to do?"
He did not answer.
That frightened me.
"Sebastian."
His hands tightened around the walker.
"For twenty years, I solved threats one way."
"That way almost destroyed you."
"I know."
"Then choose another."
He looked at me.
"What if another way gets someone hurt?"
"Then we face that. Together."
The next morning, Sebastian called federal investigators.
He turned over every message.
Every threat.
Every name.
Marco Bellini was arrested six weeks later for attempting to rebuild the old organization.
May you like
Sebastian never fired a shot.
That was the day I knew he had truly learned to walk.
