Chapter 9 - Eighteen Months Without Dante
The first month was the hardest.
Leo searched for Dante every morning.
He crawled toward the front hall whenever a deep male voice came from the television.
He stared at Dante’s photograph.
Sometimes he touched it.
Sometimes he cried.
I hated prison then.
Not because Dante was innocent.
He wasn’t.
Because consequences landed on innocent people too.
That was something nobody told you in moral speeches.
Justice could be necessary and still hurt.
I moved into the Moretti house temporarily.
Then stayed.
Not because I needed the mansion.
I hated half the rooms.
Too large.
Too much marble.
Too many people asking whether I wanted water.
I stayed because Leo needed consistency.
Camila lived there too.
Lucia moved into the guest cottage after months of therapy and negotiations about boundaries.
That was an experience.
My biological mother wanted to make up for thirty missing years in approximately six days.
I had to explain that texting me fifteen times before breakfast was not healing.
She cried.
I felt guilty.
Then my therapist told me guilt and boundaries could coexist.
Yes.
I had a therapist.
Dante paid for the first session.
I nearly refused because stubbornness had apparently become contagious.
Then I realized I had discovered a murdered twin sister, survived multiple shootings, found my imprisoned mother, entered a relationship with a convicted mafia boss, and unexpectedly gained partial guardianship of a baby.
Therapy seemed reasonable.
Gianni reopened Restorante Orelio.
I went back to work.
For exactly three weeks.
Then Gianni fired me.
“You can’t fire me.”
“I am.”
“Why?”
“Because every customer takes pictures of you now.”
Not entirely false.
After Thomas’s trial, the story exploded.
Missing twin.
Dead mafia wife.
Secret ledger.
Corrupt lawyer.
People loved tragedy when it happened to strangers.
I hated attention.
Gianni continued.
“And because you keep leaving when Leo has appointments.”
“I told you.”
“I know.”
“Then?”
He smiled.
“You don’t belong carrying plates for people who complain about sparkling water.”
“That sounds classist.”
“You know what I mean.”
“What am I supposed to do?”
Gianni handed me a folder.
Restorante Orelio ownership papers.
I stared.
“What?”
“Your grandfather left the restaurant to Lucia.”
I looked at her.
She sat at the bar.
“She transferred half to you.”
My mouth opened.
“No.”
Lucia smiled nervously.
“Yes.”
“Mom.”
“It is yours.”
“I cannot run a restaurant.”
Gianni raised his hand.
“Rude.”
“You know what I mean.”
“You can learn.”
I stared at the room.
The photograph wall.
Sofia’s picture had been moved to the center.
Next to it hung the photo of Lucia holding us as babies.
I cried.
Again.
Apparently my twenties had been dehydration and my thirties were tears.
We renamed one private dining room The Sofia Room.
Not dramatic.
Just warm.
Photographs.
Her favorite dishes.
A small plaque:
You were never forgotten.
The restaurant became profitable enough to pay everyone better wages.
That mattered to me.
I created an emergency fund for employees behind on rent.
That mattered even more.
Dante called every evening at seven.
He hated prison.
He never complained.
That worried me.
One night I said, “You’re allowed to hate it.”
“I do.”
“Then say it.”
“I hate it.”
“Good.”
“This is strange therapy.”
“It’s free.”
He laughed.
Leo learned to say Dada at eleven months.
Dante heard it through a prison phone.
He went silent.
“Dante?”
“I’m here.”
His voice broke.
“Did you hear?”
“Yes.”
Leo shouted again.
“Dada!”
Dante cried.
I pretended I didn’t hear until he said:
“Don’t pretend.”
“What?”
“You’re doing the thing where you protect my dignity.”
“I was being polite.”
“I hate polite.”
“True.”
We cried together.
At thirteen months, Leo took his first steps.
Toward Sofia’s photograph.
I filmed it.
Dante watched three days later.
At sixteen months, Leo called me Mama.
Accidentally.
I froze.
Camila froze.
Lucia cried immediately.
Leo reached for me.
“Mama.”
I picked him up.
“No, baby.”
My heart shattered.
“Aunt Elina.”
He touched my face.
“Mama.”
I cried.
That night, I told Dante.
Silence.
Then:
“How did that make you feel?”
I frowned.
“When did prison teach you therapy language?”
“Mandatory group counseling.”
“I need to send them a gift basket.”
“Elina.”
I looked at sleeping Leo.
“Guilty.”
“Why?”
“Because Sofia.”
Dante was quiet.
Then he said:
“Sofia would be grateful.”
I cried harder.
“You don’t know.”
“I do.”
“How?”
“Because she wanted him loved.”
His voice softened.
“She would never be angry at love.”
That sentence freed something in me.
I never encouraged Leo to call me Mama.
I never corrected him harshly either.
Eventually, I became Lina.
His own name for me.
Perfect.
Lucia and I rebuilt slowly.
Not mother-daughter in some instant fairytale.
We fought.
A lot.
I hated how often she justified past choices with fear.
She hated when I minimized the danger she had faced.
But we kept showing up.
That was our victory.
Camila became my closest friend.
Probably because nobody else understood what it was like to love Dante and want to hit him simultaneously.
Dante changed in prison too.
He read.
An absurd amount.
Parenting books.
Business ethics.
Trauma psychology.
I mocked him.
He deserved it.
He also began designing a plan for legitimate Moretti businesses after release.
Not the old empire.
A new structure.
Independent oversight.
No shell companies.
No cash bribery.
No armed men pretending security was a personality.
He wanted to keep the shipping company.
Construction.
Two restaurants.
Sell everything else.
“What about the clubs?” I asked during a visit.
“Sell.”
“Casinos?”
“Sell.”
“Protection businesses?”
“Gone.”
I stared through the glass.
“You’re serious.”
“Yes.”
“Who are you?”
He smiled.
“Still me.”
That was important.
Change did not mean becoming another person.
It meant choosing what parts survived.
Thomas Vellaro was sentenced to life without parole for multiple murders, kidnapping, racketeering, corruption, and conspiracy.
Marco’s involvement was fully exposed.
Antonio’s crimes became public.
My father Gabriel Santoro’s name was cleared of several accusations Thomas had fabricated.
Lucia finally buried him properly.
We went together.
Small cemetery.
No mafia ceremony.
No guns.
No powerful men.
Just us.
Lucia placed flowers.
“I’m sorry.”
I stood beside her.
“Did you love him?”
“Yes.”
“More than Antonio?”
She looked at me.
“I never loved Antonio.”
That made everything worse and better.
I touched Gabriel’s stone.
“Do you think Sofia knew him?”
“No.”
“Then neither of us did.”
Lucia cried.
I took her hand.
That was enough.
Dante’s release date moved forward two months for good behavior and program participation.
I told nobody.
Not even Leo.
I wanted the surprise.
The morning he came home, Leo was two years old.
I brought him to the restaurant.
“Why are we here early?” Camila asked.
“Inventory.”
“You do not inventory.”
“Today I do.”
She stared.
Then understood.
“You liar.”
“Quiet.”
Lucia arrived.
Gianni.
Staff.
No customers.
At ten seventeen, the front door opened.
Dante walked in.
No expensive suit.
Dark jeans.
Black jacket.
Scar.
Tattoos.
Same man.
Different weight in his eyes.
Leo stared.
Dante stopped.
For one terrifying second, I wondered if eighteen months had been too long.
Then Leo whispered:
“Dada.”
Dante’s face broke.
Leo ran.
Dante dropped to his knees.
His son hit him at full speed.
Dante caught him.
Cried openly.
No shame.
No hiding.
Leo touched his face.
“You home?”
Dante could barely answer.
“Yes.”
“Stay?”
Dante closed his eyes.
“Yes.”
He looked at me over Leo’s shoulder.
“If they let me.”
I walked closer.
“They’ll have to get through me.”
He laughed.
Then stood.
Leo in one arm.
He touched my cheek.
“Hi.”
I smiled.
“Hi.”
“That’s all?”
“You want applause?”
“I served sixteen months.”
“For crimes.”
“Still.”
I kissed him.
Everyone clapped anyway.
Gianni shouted something in Italian.
Camila cried.
Lucia covered Leo’s eyes, which was ridiculous considering he was the reason we were together.
When the kiss ended, Dante whispered:
“I missed you.”
“I know.”
“How?”
“You wrote me seventy-three letters.”
“Seventy-one.”
I stared.
“You kept count?”
“Obviously.”
Still Dante.
Good.
That evening, after everyone left, we sat in the Sofia Room.
Leo asleep against Dante.
Exactly the way he once slept against me.
Dante looked at the photograph of Sofia.
“You okay?”
“Yes.”
“Really?”
He nodded.
“I used to think seeing your face would always hurt.”
My chest tightened.
“And now?”
Dante looked at me.
“Now I see you.”
The words mattered more than any love speech.
I reached for his hand.
“What happens tomorrow?”
“Probation meeting.”
“Romantic.”
“Then lawyers.”
“Better.”
“Then I start dismantling the last pieces.”
I nodded.
“And after?”
Dante looked toward Leo.
“Maybe we build something.”
“What?”
He smiled.
“A life boring enough that nobody writes about it.”
I laughed.
“Impossible.”
He squeezed my hand.
He was right.
Boring would never entirely happen.
Because three months after Dante came home, I found a ring hidden inside his desk.
And instead of waiting for him to propose, I confronted him during breakfast.
May you like
The argument became legendary.
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