Chapter 14 - THE LAST THING VINCENT EVER CALLED HER IN ITALIAN
Vincent’s Parkinson’s progressed slowly.
Years.
Sofia stayed.
Lauren met her once at an exhibition.
No jealousy.
Sofia was warm, funny, and unimpressed by Vincent’s money.
Good.
At seventy, Vincent invited Lauren and Evan to dinner.
Strange.
He explained:
“I’m selling my advisory firm.”
Retirement.
He wanted a small gathering with people from different chapters.
Lauren almost declined.
Then accepted.
Restaurant in Little Italy.
Private room.
Natalie attended?
No.
Too complicated.
Rebecca Alvarez from Romano Capital.
Gerald definitely not.
Maria Delgado, somehow still alive at ninety-plus? Maybe too much. Let's say Maria had died years earlier. Fine.
Sofia.
Vincent’s cousins.
A few former colleagues.
Lauren and Evan.
Dinner was good.
Vincent’s tremor visible.
He did not hide.
At one point, he stood to speak.
“My hands make speeches inconvenient now.”
People smiled.
Then:
“I built my career believing control was the same as competence.”
Lauren felt Evan’s hand near hers, not touching until she reached.
She did.
Vincent continued.
“I was competent.”
No false humility.
“I was also controlling.”
Good.
“I hurt people.”
Pause.
“I especially hurt a woman who once trusted me enough to stop checking whether I deserved it.”
Lauren’s eyes filled.
No name yet.
Then he looked at her.
“Lauren.”
Room quiet.
“I called you many things in Italian when I believed you couldn’t understand.”
Her throat tightened.
“Some affectionate.”
True.
“Some arrogant.”
True.
“One unforgivable.”
Elegant toy.
He did not repeat.
Good.
Then he smiled.
“There is one thing I would like to call you now.”
Lauren raised eyebrow.
“Careful.”
Laughter.
Vincent switched to Italian.
“La persona che avrei dovuto ascoltare.”
The person I should have listened to.
Lauren cried.
Then answered:
“Finalmente.”
Finally.
Everyone laughed.
Vincent sat.
No reconciliation.
No rewriting.
Just two people who had once loved badly enough to injure each other—mostly him injuring trust—and lived long enough to understand.
After dinner, Sofia approached Lauren.
“Thank you for coming.”
“You don’t owe me thanks.”
“I know.”
Good.
Then:
“He still talks about you.”
Lauren smiled.
“I assume badly.”
“Mostly about spreadsheets.”
Of course.
Sofia became serious.
“He told me before our first date what he did.”
“That was smart.”
“I almost didn’t go.”
“Also smart.”
They laughed.
Then Sofia said:
“He’s better because consequences forced him to become better.”
Lauren considered.
“Some.”
“And because he chose to keep working after consequences.”
Yes.
Both.
Outside, Vincent stood under awning waiting for car.
Lauren joined.
“You okay?”
“Yes.”
He looked at her.
“Do you remember Florence?”
“What?”
“The first year we were married. You told me you knew a restaurant there where nobody spoke English.”
Lauren laughed.
“And you said you’d protect me from the menu.”
He closed eyes.
“Oh God.”
“You ordered tripe by accident.”
“I thought it was steak.”
“You blamed waiter.”
“I was awful.”
“Not always.”
He looked at her.
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“Not changing every memory into evidence against me.”
That was profound.
Lauren thought of wedding.
Sunday mornings.
Kitchen dancing.
Mother’s funeral.
Vincent holding her hand.
Good things remained good even when marriage failed.
“You were my husband,” she said.
“I loved you.”
He nodded.
“I loved you too.”
Then:
“I just wasn’t good enough at respecting what I loved.”
There.
Car arrived.
Vincent opened door.
Stopped.
Looked back.
“Buonanotte, Lauren.”
Good night.
“Buonanotte, Vincent.”
She watched car leave.
It was the last time they saw each other in person.
Vincent died five years later after complications from pneumonia unrelated directly to Parkinson’s.
Sofia called Lauren.
He left no dramatic message.
No secret fortune.
Only a book.
Dante.
Inside front cover, Vincent had written years earlier:
For Lauren, who always understood more than I knew.
Lauren cried.
Then placed it on shelf beside books from Florence.
May you like
Not shrine.
History.
