Chapter 9 - FOUR YEARS LATER, DOMINIC FINALLY BOUGHT THE DOG I TOLD HIM TO GET
Four years after I sarcastically told Dominic Costa to marry me, he finally followed my first piece of advice.
He got a dog.
Technically, Lucia got the dog.
She was three.
This distinction meant nothing because Dominic chose a ninety-pound rescue mastiff who immediately decided my side of the bed belonged to him.
“No.”
I stood in our bedroom doorway.
The dog stared.
Dominic stood behind him.
“He likes you.”
“He is on my pillow.”
“Affection.”
“He drooled on it.”
“Commitment.”
I looked at my husband.
“This is your fault.”
“You told me to get a dog.”
“Four years ago.”
“I’m thorough.”
Lucia came running down the hallway.
“POPE!”
Yes.
She named him Pope.
Because years earlier I had told one of Dominic’s men I did not care if he was “with the Pope.”
Dominic remembered.
Of course.
He remembered everything involving me.
Some habits never needed fixing.
Life had become strange in the best possible way.
The Onyx Room expanded.
Not into some giant Costa chain.
Mine and Nadia’s.
We opened a second location on the West Side.
Then a third near Evanston.
Employees earned profit-sharing after two years.
Managers had healthcare.
Predictable schedules.
Emergency childcare assistance.
Leo ran facilities.
That decision terrified me.
He surprised everyone.
Mostly himself.
At thirty, he had been gambling-free for nearly eight years.
He still attended meetings.
Still handed his finances to no one.
Still occasionally made stupid decisions involving women and motorcycles.
Recovery did not make him boring.
Unfortunately.
The River North building remained partly ours.
Rental income funded investments.
A portion went into the Catherine Moretti Legal and Recovery Fund, a nonprofit Leo and I established for families dealing with predatory gambling debt, financial coercion, and reentry after addiction treatment.
Dominic contributed exactly once at launch.
After I asked.
He never put his name on it.
Good.
Costa Holdings looked different too.
Dominic remained chairman of the legitimate parent company.
Not dictator.
Professional CEO.
Independent audit committee.
External compliance.
Sofia chaired the family foundation.
Marco eventually became head of security for the business group and complained that lawyers now required forms for everything.
I told him civilization was hard.
Salvatore remained in federal prison.
Old.
Sick.
Dominic had visited twice.
The first because he needed to.
The second because Lucia asked why he did not speak to “Uncle Sal” after seeing an old family photograph.
We told her age-appropriate truth.
“He did things that hurt people and had serious consequences.”
No monsters.
No family mythology.
When she was older, she would know more.
Dominic returned from the second visit quiet.
“Did he apologize?”
I asked.
“No.”
“Did you expect him to?”
“No.”
“What did he say?”
“That everything became weaker after him.”
I looked around our kitchen.
Lucia drawing on the floor.
Pope sleeping beneath the table.
Leo arriving late with pizza.
Dominic’s phone buzzing because a board apparently believed he needed to know something about warehouse insurance.
“We look devastated.”
He smiled.
“Exactly.”
Vincent died in prison two years later from natural causes.
No dramatic last confession.
No hidden treasure.
His cooperation records stayed archived.
Carlo completed his sentence and never returned to Costa business.
Abigail Reed became something like an honorary terrifying grandmother to us.
She visited Chicago every Christmas.
Lucia adored Henry, her golden retriever.
Pope was jealous.
Detective Ruiz got promoted.
When journalists occasionally reopened the old Matteo-Lucia case, the story became less about “mob secrets” and more about what it actually was.
People using family loyalty to justify control.
One dead man trying to expose theft.
Two women trying to preserve evidence.
Thirty years of consequences.
And eventually, people choosing a different system.
On our fourth wedding anniversary, Dominic reserved the private room at the Onyx.
I arrived late.
On purpose.
He sat alone.
Same rear booth.
Same expression he used when waiting for important people.
I set down my purse.
“You look lonely.”
His eyes narrowed.
“Dangerous opening.”
“Get a dog.”
“We have one.”
“Then I’ve solved marriage.”
Dominic laughed.
A real laugh.
Still rare outside our home.
Still my favorite.
He reached inside his jacket.
I stared.
“No.”
He froze.
“What?”
“If you pull out another ring, I’m leaving.”
“It’s not a ring.”
He removed the old black velvet box.
My eyes softened.
“What are you doing?”
The original heirloom ring remained on my finger.
Lucia Costa’s.
Her mother’s before.
The velvet box had been empty for years.
Dominic opened it.
Inside was a folded piece of paper.
I stared.
“What?”
“Read.”
I unfolded.
One line.
THINGS I WILL NEVER DECIDE FOR YOU JUST BECAUSE I AM AFRAID.
Below it, a list.
Where you work.
Who you speak to.
How you spend your money.
When you need space.
What risks you are willing to take after knowing the facts.
Who you become.
Whether our daughter follows any Costa tradition.
Whether you stay married to me.
I stopped.
Looked at him.
“That last one is alarming.”
Dominic smiled slightly.
“It’s true.”
“You’re giving me an anniversary reminder that I can divorce you?”
“Yes.”
“Extremely romantic.”
“I’ve improved.”
I looked at the last line.
I can ask you to stay. I will never make staying the price of being safe.
My eyes filled.
“Dominic.”
He looked suddenly nervous.
Still.
After four years.
Still capable of being afraid of my answer.
Good.
“Why now?”
He looked toward the bar.
“Because this is where you first said powerful men always give women something and present the bill later.”
I remembered.
Cracked boots.
Eighty thousand dollars.
Destroyed apartment.
My brother missing.
The ring.
I nodded.
Dominic continued.
“I think part of me has been trying to prove you wrong ever since.”
“Very healthy foundation for marriage.”
“No.”
He smiled.
“But maybe useful.”
I folded the paper.
Put it back into the velvet box.
Then pushed it toward him.
His eyebrows lifted.
“Keep carrying it.”
For a second, neither of us spoke.
The echo hit both of us.
Four years earlier, police-station parking lot.
Same box.
Same words.
Different life.
Dominic’s expression softened.
“How long?”
“Forever sounds exhausting.”
“Three weeks?”
I laughed.
“Do not start.”
“Three months?”
“Costa.”
“Understood.”
Then Leo walked into the room without knocking.
“Are you two being weird?”
“Yes,” I said.
“No,” Dominic said.
Leo looked at the velvet box.
“Oh God. Are you proposing again?”
“No.”
“Good, because technically Norah—”
“Leo.”
He shut his mouth.
Four years.
Still.
Nadia arrived behind him.
Sofia.
Marco.
Apparently Dominic had invited everyone.
“Private dinner?”
I asked.
He looked guilty.
“I may have expanded.”
Of course.
Lucia ran in last holding my sister-in-law’s hand.
“MOMMY!”
I caught her.
Pope followed because apparently restaurant health codes had become flexible under ownership.
“Why is the dog here?”
Dominic looked toward Nadia.
She raised both hands.
“Not me.”
Marco said:
“He has security clearance.”
I stared.
“Nobody gave Pope security clearance.”
Dominic looked away.
“Dominic.”
“He passed temperament screening.”
I laughed so hard I had to sit.
Dinner became chaos.
Exactly the kind of chaos I once believed rich families did not have.
I was wrong.
Healthy families can be loud.
They can argue.
Annoy.
Overshare.
They just need enough room for no.
After dinner, Sofia gave Lucia a small framed photograph.
Catherine and Matteo.
The one from our wedding package.
Restored.
Cleaned.
I stared.
“Where did you—”
“Police released a copy.”
On the back, Sofia added another photograph.
Lucia Costa.
My daughter’s grandmother.
Standing beside Catherine years before they both left that old world in different ways.
Abigail had found the photograph.
My mother looked pregnant? No.
Earlier.
Young.
Both women smiling.
Neither knew the futures waiting.
My daughter touched the glass.
“Who are they?”
I crouched.
“Your grandmothers.”
She looked confused.
“Both?”
“One is mine.”
“One is Daddy’s.”
“Friends?”
Dominic knelt beside us.
He looked at the image.
“Eventually.”
That was enough for three.
Maybe enough for adults too.
Later that night, after everyone left, Dominic and I walked home.
Yes.
Walked.
No black SUV.
Marco hated it.
One security man remained far enough behind that I could pretend he did not exist.
Compromise.
Snow had started.
Chicago quiet under white.
Dominic held my hand.
Four years earlier, walking alone at night had been one of the things he could not tolerate.
Now he walked beside me because I invited him.
Different.
At the townhouse, Lucia already asleep with Sofia overnight, the house felt unusually quiet.
Pope immediately occupied my side of the bed again.
I pointed.
“Your dog.”
“Our dog.”
“Your criminal.”
“He has no convictions.”
“Yet.”
Dominic moved him.
Eventually.
We stood at the bedroom window.
Snow falling.
Then Dominic said:
“Do you ever think about the night you proposed?”
“I did not propose.”
“The historical record—”
“No.”
He smiled.
“Fine.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
“What do you think?”
“That I was carrying a ring because I had finally found something I wanted but couldn’t take.”
My throat tightened.
“And now?”
Dominic looked around.
Our home.
Photographs.
Lucia’s toys downstairs.
My business papers on the desk.
His board documents he no longer treated like state secrets.
“Now I know taking would have ruined it.”
I leaned into him.
He wrapped one arm around me.
The antique ring caught the light.
My mother had spent years believing dangerous families could only be survived by running from them.
For her, maybe that had been true.
Lucia believed family had to be protected even when truth threatened it.
That had killed part of her.
Matteo believed exposing everything would set them free.
He never lived long enough to know.
I did not need to decide which dead person had been right.
My life was not a verdict on theirs.
That was the gift Catherine actually left me.
None of this is yours to fix.
So I stopped trying to fix history.
We let courts name crimes.
Let accountants restore what money they could.
Let graves remain graves.
Let apologies be accepted without becoming obligations.
Let Leo rebuild.
Let Sofia grieve.
Let Dominic change without pretending he had never been dangerous.
Let me love him without pretending love meant trusting blindly.
And let our daughter inherit stories instead of commands.
The next morning, Lucia climbed into our bed at 6:03.
Pope jumped up too.
Dominic opened one eye.
“This is unacceptable.”
Lucia sat on his chest.
“PANCAKES.”
“She has your negotiation style,” I said.
“No.”
“Definitely.”
“Pancakes,” she repeated.
Dominic surrendered.
Chicago’s most feared man lost negotiations to a three-year-old before sunrise.
Again.
I followed them downstairs.
Dominic made coffee.
I burned the first pancake.
Lucia complained.
Pope ate it.
Outside, security changed shifts quietly.
Inside, nobody cared who controlled Chicago.
At one point Dominic reached for my coffee automatically.
I slapped his hand.
“Mine.”
He stopped.
“Right.”
That tiny thing made me smile.
Not because he asked permission to touch coffee.
Because we had built a life where correction was ordinary.
Nobody punished disagreement.
Nobody turned fear into debt.
Nobody called control protection and expected silence in return.
Four years earlier, I thought my problem was eighty thousand dollars.
Then a ring opened.
A dead woman’s photograph appeared.
A brother disappeared.
A tape returned.
An old murder cracked open.
And everything I believed about Dominic Costa became more complicated.
He was dangerous.
Powerful.
Sometimes controlling.
Capable of frightening people without lifting his voice.
He was also capable of learning.
Apologizing.
Waiting.
Changing systems that once benefited him.
And loving me in the one way I had never expected from a man like him.
Without making my freedom the price.
Dominic put a pancake on my plate.
I looked at it.
Burned.
“You did this deliberately.”
“Evidence?”
“Your face.”
He smiled.
Lucia shouted:
“KISS!”
We looked at her.
“No,” I said.
“Yes,” Dominic said.
I narrowed my eyes.
He lifted both hands.
“Opinion.”
“Better.”
Then he waited.
I leaned across the table and kissed him.
Because I wanted to.
Pope barked.
Lucia cheered.
Dominic laughed.
And that was how the story really ended.
Not with Chicago’s most feared man winning the bartender.
Not with a mafia family destroying its enemies.
Not with money recovered from old crimes.
It ended with a choice repeated every ordinary day.
Ask.
Listen.
Answer.
Stay only because staying is still free.
And every morning after that, Dominic Costa kept earning the one thing no amount of money, fear, loyalty, or family history could ever force from me.
May you like
My yes.
THE END
