Chapter 11 - LILY ASKED WHY I NEVER HAD CHILDREN OF MY OWN
Lily was nine when she asked me why I had no children.
Direct.
Public.
At Christmas dinner.
Of course.
My mother nearly choked.
Claire closed her eyes.
Enzo looked fascinated.
Vincent, recently released after serving a reduced sentence connected to his cooperation and older offenses, stared deeply into his mashed potatoes.
I looked at Lily.
“Why do you ask?”
She shrugged.
“You like kids.”
Noah and Ethan did not exist in this story. Again, wrong life. Funny how families in my head still sometimes invented people because rooms felt fuller now.
I smiled.
“I do.”
“So?”
“So what?”
“Why no kids?”
Claire intervened.
“Lily.”
“What?”
“People do not have to explain—”
“It’s okay.”
I looked toward my cousin.
Then Lily.
“I was busy.”
She frowned.
“That’s not a reason.”
Fair.
“I was also not very good at relationships.”
My mother coughed.
Claire laughed.
Vincent almost smiled.
Lily looked horrified.
“You?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I did not trust people easily.”
“Mom didn’t trust you.”
“Correct.”
“Now she does.”
Claire raised an eyebrow.
“Some days.”
I smiled.
Lily continued.
“So you could have a baby now.”
Every adult at the table wanted to disappear.
I laughed.
“Life does not work exactly like ordering parts.”
“It could.”
“No.”
“Do you want kids?”
That question.
I had avoided it.
Not because nobody asked.
Because I always had answers ready.
The organization.
Danger.
Time.
No marriage.
Wrong relationships.
Then Claire and Lily appeared.
A six-year-old with a wrench stepped out of weeds and accidentally made the question harder.
“I don’t know.”
Lily looked satisfied.
“Okay.”
That was it.
Children accept uncertainty better than adults.
Later, Claire found me on the porch.
“You okay?”
“Yes.”
“Lie.”
I smiled.
“Maybe.”
She sat.
Snow covered the field.
Her rebuilt house glowed behind us.
“Do you?”
“What?”
“Want children.”
I looked toward her.
“You joined the interrogation?”
“No.”
“Curious.”
I thought.
“I think I wanted a family.”
“You had one.”
“Technically.”
She knew what I meant.
Salvatore’s family.
Rules.
Hierarchy.
Men around tables.
Christmas dinners where business did not stop being business because cannoli appeared.
“I thought family was something you inherited.”
“And?”
I looked through the window.
Lily arguing with Enzo.
My mother correcting Vincent’s coffee.
Claire’s house.
“Apparently you can build one later.”
She smiled.
“Very philosophical.”
“Therapy.”
“Still?”
“Every Tuesday.”
“Good.”
I stared at her.
“What?”
“You sound surprised.”
“I’m proud.”
“Worse.”
Claire laughed.
Three years earlier, I might have interpreted that warmth incorrectly.
Not romantically.
But possessively.
Like being needed meant having a claim.
Now I understood.
Claire could love me as family without owing me closeness every day.
Lily could call me Adrian instead of Uncle Adrian if she wanted.
My mother could forgive Vincent without asking me.
Vincent could regret and still face consequences.
Enzo could arrive late and still become useful.
Nothing needed one official shape.
A month later, I met a woman.
That was not dramatic.
No blood.
No broken cars.
No mafia connection.
Her name was Dr. Mara Ellis.
Pediatric orthopedic surgeon.
I met her because Lily broke her wrist falling off a skateboard she had specifically been told not to ride down Claire’s driveway.
At the emergency room, Lily said,
“Do not tell Mom how fast.”
Claire was standing beside her.
“I heard you.”
Mara laughed.
I noticed.
She was forty.
Dark hair.
Calm.
Completely unimpressed by my last name.
When the nurse whispered something after recognizing me, Mara said,
“In this room he’s the cousin holding the ice pack wrong.”
I looked at my hand.
“How am I holding ice wrong?”
“Like you’re trying to negotiate with it.”
Lily laughed through pain.
I liked Mara immediately.
That was inconvenient.
We dated.
Slowly.
Very slowly.
Claire knew before I told her.
“How?”
“You changed shirts three times before dinner Tuesday.”
“I own shirts.”
“Not the point.”
My mother knew next.
Of course.
She asked Mara too many questions.
Mara answered them.
Then asked Teresa questions back.
My mother loved her.
I considered this suspicious.
Lily adored her because Mara knew how bones healed.
Lily loved anything mechanical.
Apparently skeletons counted.
One night, six months into dating, Mara sat beside me at a restaurant.
“Your family is strange.”
“That is the nicest possible version.”
“I like them.”
“Dangerous.”
She smiled.
Then became serious.
“I need to ask something.”
My old instincts tightened.
“What?”
“Do you still consider yourself part of organized crime?”
Direct.
Good.
I did not soften.
“Historically, yes.”
“Currently?”
“I own legitimate businesses.”
“I still know men who have committed crimes.”
“I have committed crimes.”
Mara watched.
“Violent?”
I looked at her.
“Yes.”
She breathed.
“When?”
“Before I changed how I operated.”
“That is not an answer.”
Fair.
I gave her enough truth.
Not graphic.
Not heroic.
Threats.
Fights.
Orders I regretted.
Times I let family logic become moral permission.
Mara listened.
Then:
“Are you proud?”
“No.”
“Do you excuse it?”
“No.”
“Would you do it again?”
I thought.
“I hope not.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“Hope?”
“Anyone who promises what fear will never make them capable of is lying.”
Mara sat back.
Then nodded.
“Better answer.”
We continued dating.
A year later, I proposed.
Not at Claire’s garage.
Lily suggested that.
No.
I asked Mara on my mother’s back porch.
No photographers.
No Moretti ring.
I bought one myself.
She said yes.
Lily cried.
Then claimed dust.
Claire called her a liar.
Our wedding was small.
Teresa.
Claire.
Lily.
Enzo.
Vincent.
Daniel.
Mara’s family.
No captains.
No business seating chart.
No armed men inside the room.
Security outside because reality still existed.
Enough.
Before the ceremony, Vincent found me.
“You sure?”
I looked at him.
“About?”
“Marriage.”
“Yes.”
He smiled.
“Good.”
Then:
“Carlo would have liked this.”
My throat tightened.
“You think?”
“He wanted boring.”
I laughed.
“So I hear.”
Mara and I married beneath string lights in Claire’s yard.
The same property Luciano had burned.
The rebuilt house behind us.
Thomas’s grave twenty miles away.
Isabella’s photograph inside.
History present.
Not ruling.
When the officiant asked for vows, Mara went first.
“I promise not to confuse your past with your future.”
My eyes filled.
“And I promise not to pretend the past disappears because I love you.”
That was better.
My turn.
“I grew up believing protection meant removing choices before people made the wrong ones.”
Claire started crying.
My mother too.
“I was wrong.”
“I promise to ask.”
“To listen.”
“To tell you when I am afraid instead of building a wall and naming it safety.”
Mara smiled through tears.
“And if I fail…”
I swallowed.
“I promise to learn earlier.”
Miguel’s sentence.
Carlo’s lesson.
Everyone who came before.
Mara kissed me before the officiant finished.
Lily shouted,
“You’re supposed to wait!”
Everyone laughed.
I did too.
For once, the Moretti family witnessed a wedding where nobody negotiated territory.
Nobody exchanged power.
Nobody disappeared afterward.
Just two adults choosing.
Simple.
May you like
Almost boring.
My father would have loved it.
