Chapter 7 - AMARA ASKED ROMAN WHY PEOPLE WERE AFRAID OF HIM
I returned to the Valente estate six months later.
Not as staff.
As a guest.
That felt stranger.
Mrs. Russo had invited Amara and me to her retirement luncheon.
After thirty-four years, she finally quit.
Roman apparently tried to convince her to stay.
She told him:
“I raised one Valente too many.”
Roman lost.
We arrived through the same iron gates.
My stomach tightened.
Amara noticed.
“You okay?”
“Yes.”
“You’re doing the face.”
Still.
“I’m okay.”
She looked unconvinced.
The estate looked unchanged.
But the atmosphere was different.
Fewer armed men.
New security badges.
No Dominic.
No Matteo.
No Vivian.
The conference room doors stood open.
I hated that room anyway.
Mrs. Russo’s luncheon took place in the garden.
Thirty staff members.
Francesca.
Bianca.
Roman.
Dr. Hart.
Even Luca.
Amara ran toward Mrs. Russo.
The older woman hugged her.
“My little investigator.”
I immediately said:
“Do not encourage her.”
Roman, behind me:
“Too late.”
I turned.
He looked healthier.
Still Roman.
Black suit.
But no tie.
I realized I had not seen him in person for months.
Phone calls occasionally.
Mostly about the case at first.
Then less about the case.
Books.
School.
Nursing prerequisites.
Amara’s science project.
He had become something I did not have a name for.
Not employer.
Not friend exactly.
Maybe approaching.
“Clara.”
“Roman.”
His mouth almost smiled.
“You look nervous.”
“This house once got locked down because your family tried to medically overthrow you.”
“Fair.”
“Stop saying fair.”
He looked confused.
“Why?”
“Nothing.”
Different story echo? Fine.
During lunch, Roman sat across from Amara.
Dangerous.
She immediately began questioning.
“Why do people still call you mafia?”
I nearly choked.
Francesca closed her eyes.
Bianca covered a smile.
Roman did not react.
“Because my family was involved in organized crime.”
“Was?”
“Some people still are connected to old things.”
“You?”
Roman thought.
“I did illegal things when I was younger.”
Amara stared.
“Like what?”
“Amara.”
Roman lifted one hand.
“No.”
He looked at her.
“Fighting. Helping businesses collect money in ways they shouldn’t have. Protecting people because they belonged to my family when I should have let consequences happen.”
She frowned.
“Did you go to jail?”
“No.”
“Why?”
Roman looked at Luca.
Then back.
“Because powerful people often avoid consequences longer than they should.”
The table went silent.
Amara considered.
“Is that fair?”
“No.”
Good.
“Are people scared of you?”
“Yes.”
“Do you like it?”
Roman paused longer.
“Sometimes I used to.”
“Why?”
“Because fear made people listen quickly.”
Amara nodded.
“Teachers do that too.”
Everyone laughed.
Then she became serious.
“Mom isn’t scared of you.”
My stomach tightened.
Roman looked at me.
“No.”
Amara continued:
“She was at first.”
“Thank you, Amara.”
“What?”
Children.
Roman’s eyes softened.
“I’m glad she isn’t.”
I was not entirely sure that was true.
I was less afraid.
Different.
After lunch, Mrs. Russo gave a speech.
Mostly insults.
Roman deserved many.
Then Francesca spoke.
She apologized publicly to the staff.
Not for the crime itself.
For allowing the estate to become a place where loyalty mattered more than questioning.
“If any of you ever believe someone in this family is placing another person at risk, you do not owe us silence.”
That was new.
Very new.
Staff looked uncomfortable.
Old habits.
I understood.
Silence does not disappear because management creates a policy.
It takes practice.
Then Bianca approached me.
“I owe you an apology.”
“For?”
“The courier.”
“You didn’t know.”
“I also didn’t ask.”
She looked toward Roman.
“I spent years thinking staying out of family decisions made me innocent.”
That sounded familiar.
“You ran a charity.”
“Yes.”
“I told myself that made me different.”
“And?”
“It made me useful somewhere else.”
She smiled sadly.
“Not brave here.”
We stood.
Both watching Amara steal dessert.
Then Bianca asked about nursing school.
I had completed prerequisites.
Accepted into an accelerated practical-nursing program with bridge options later.
“Congratulations.”
“Thank you.”
“Roman told everyone.”
I stared across the garden.
He saw.
Immediately looked away.
I almost laughed.
After the luncheon, Amara went inside with Mrs. Russo to inspect the pantry for cookies.
I remained outside.
Roman approached.
“You’re angry.”
“You told everyone about nursing.”
“Not everyone.”
“Bianca.”
“My mother.”
“Luca?”
“He already knew.”
“Roman.”
He looked almost embarrassed.
“I’m proud.”
The word landed oddly.
I had not heard a man say that to me since Michael.
My husband had been proud when I completed a medical-assistant certificate years earlier.
Then life changed.
I looked away.
“Thank you.”
Roman did not push.
Good.
We walked near the garden wall.
He said:
“Dominic’s trial starts next month.”
“You testifying?”
“Yes.”
“Nervous?”
“No.”
Liar.
He noticed my look.
“A little.”
“Good.”
“Why good?”
“Means you understand you can’t control the room.”
He smiled faintly.
“That lesson keeps appearing.”
Then:
“I sold the lakefront terminals.”
I stopped.
“What?”
“To an independent infrastructure fund.”
“At $180 million below value?”
“No.”
“Good.”
He told me the sale price.
I almost laughed.
I did not understand amounts with that many zeros.
“What happens to the money?”
“Debt, reinvestment, taxes.”
“And?”
“A foundation.”
I immediately narrowed my eyes.
“No.”
He laughed.
“Not for you.”
“Good.”
“For respiratory injury and smoke-exposure treatment.”
My expression changed.
The warehouse fire that damaged him.
Dr. Hart had proposed specialized programs for firefighters, industrial workers, and children with severe asthma.
Roman funded it privately.
Independent board.
No Valente name.
“Why no name?”
“Because not every good thing needs to advertise who paid.”
That was growth.
Then Amara burst through the garden door.
“Roman!”
He turned.
She held a cookie.
“What?”
“Mrs. Russo says you don’t know how to make coffee.”
Roman stared.
“She is retired and already spreading lies.”
Mrs. Russo shouted from inside:
“TRUTH.”
I laughed.
Roman looked at me.
Something shifted.
Small.
Warm.
Dangerous in a completely different way.
I recognized attraction before I wanted to.
Immediately stepped back.
No.
I was thirty-two now.
Widow.
Single mother.
Student.
Roman was Roman.
Complicated did not begin to cover it.
He seemed to notice my withdrawal.
He did nothing.
Thank God.
At the car, Amara said:
“You like him.”
I almost dropped my keys.
“What?”
“Roman.”
“No.”
“You smile different.”
“You are eight.”
“Nine next month.”
“Still banned from this conversation.”
She grinned.
Then:
“He likes you.”
“Amara.”
“He does.”
I drove away.
May you like
Refused to think about it.
Successfully for almost six minutes.
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