Chapter 12 - THE SON BORN UNDER GUARD
Luca was eight months old when Giacomo Ricci went to trial.
By then he could crawl.
Badly.
But enthusiastically.
He had Vittorio’s dark eyes.
My stubbornness.
Sofia claimed both were curses.
Vittorio had become frighteningly competent with diapers.
Still terrible at cooking.
His legal situation stabilized.
No prison after all? Need realistic but happy. We can say court accepted cooperation, imposed home detention/community restrictions rather than incarceration for admitted financial offenses, with massive forfeiture. Need not trivialize.
The court imposed eighteen months of electronically monitored restricted residence, extensive financial penalties, disqualification from certain directorships, and mandatory cooperation on continuing organized-crime investigations.
He hated the ankle monitor.
Luca loved it.
Every visit, the baby tried to grab it.
“Your son mocks me.”
“Our son has excellent instincts.”
Vittorio no longer ran Ricci Maritime.
The company’s new board continued without him.
He retained minority nonvoting ownership in several legitimate businesses.
Enough money to remain wealthier than any human needed.
But the empire was gone.
Or transformed.
The old criminal crews splintered.
Some disappeared.
Some were arrested.
Some entered legitimate operations.
Antonio became head of a licensed corporate-security company after extensive background review.
He complained that paperwork was worse than bullets.
I told him that was the point.
Francesca’s company succeeded.
She invested in women-owned logistics technology firms, partly because she enjoyed competing with both fathers.
Lorenzo eventually apologized to her.
She told him apologies did not restore board seats.
I remained a waitress for three months after Luca’s birth.
Then Stellato’s owner offered me assistant events manager.
I refused.
Too many memories.
Instead, I enrolled in an online hospitality-management program using savings and maternity benefits.
Vittorio offered to pay.
I said no.
He said:
“Expected.”
Good.
One thing I did accept was Luca’s legally required support.
That paid for childcare when I returned to work part-time.
Not dependence.
Parenting.
I learned the difference.
Giacomo’s trial lasted seven weeks.
I testified once.
Not about mafia operations.
About the surveillance.
Clinic access.
Threats.
My letters.
The prosecutor showed Project Legacy.
Maternal discrediting.
I read the phrase aloud.
Giacomo watched me from the defense table.
He looked ordinary.
That disturbed me.
Monsters rarely had the decency to look monstrous.
The prosecutor asked:
“How did Mr. Ricci’s plan affect you?”
I looked toward Vittorio sitting behind the prosecution team as a cooperating witness.
Then answered:
“It made me afraid my son would be treated as property before he learned his own name.”
The courtroom became still.
Giacomo’s attorney tried to portray me as financially motivated.
“Your son stood to inherit tens of millions.”
“No.”
“Under the original trust—”
“The trust was changed.”
“At your request.”
“Yes.”
“You asked to reduce your own child’s inheritance?”
“Yes.”
He stared as though money should explain everyone.
“Why?”
“Because I preferred him alive.”
No further question helped him.
Vittorio testified for two days.
About his father.
Giacomo.
The false Bellandi evidence.
His own offenses.
Everything.
Giacomo’s attorneys attacked him as a criminal saving himself.
Vittorio agreed he had committed crimes.
That made the attack weaker.
He did not ask to be considered innocent.
Only accurate.
Giacomo was convicted on nearly every major count.
Murder conspiracy.
Attempted murder.
Kidnapping.
Racketeering.
Weapons offenses.
Fraud.
He would die in prison barring extraordinary circumstances.
When the verdict came, Vittorio did not celebrate.
We stood outside the courthouse.
Reporters shouted.
“What does justice feel like?”
Vittorio looked toward me.
Then answered:
“Late.”
That was all.
Months passed.
His restricted-residence order meant visits often happened at his home.
Not Ricci House.
He sold it.
I asked why.
“Too many tunnels.”
I laughed.
Actually, he donated part of the property to a foundation supporting witnesses and families leaving organized crime.
The main villa became a training and transitional residence.
His father would probably have considered that sacrilege.
Good.
Vittorio lived in a smaller property outside Milan.
Still beautiful.
Still more bathrooms than necessary.
Luca learned to walk there.
His first steps happened between me and Vittorio.
We both knelt on the carpet.
Luca stood.
Wobbled.
Vittorio whispered:
“Come here.”
I said:
“No, come to Mama.”
Vittorio looked offended.
“Competition?”
“Always.”
Luca took one step toward me.
Then turned.
Two toward Vittorio.
Then fell.
We both laughed.
He crawled the rest.
Smart child.
A year after Stellato, Francesca invited us to dinner.
Not engagement dinner.
Thank God.
Her new apartment.
Lorenzo not invited.
Sofia came.
Antonio.
Paolo.
Dr. Ferraro.
A strange little family assembled by disaster.
At dessert Francesca looked at me.
“Do you realize a year ago I asked if Luca was Vittorio’s child and destroyed my own engagement?”
“You did not destroy it.”
“I helped.”
Vittorio said:
“Your father helped more.”
She smiled.
Then looked at him.
“Do you regret it?”
“The engagement?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“I regret wasting your time.”
“Better.”
Then she looked at me.
“And you?”
“What?”
“Do you regret Stellato?”
I thought.
If I had not served table twelve, what then?
Giacomo already knew.
The threats would have come.
Perhaps later.
Perhaps worse.
Vittorio might have learned about Luca after birth.
Or never.
I looked at him.
He looked back.
“I regret the wine list.”
Everyone laughed.
Then I became serious.
“I regret what happened before.”
Six months.
Loneliness.
Fear.
“But not everything after.”
Vittorio’s eyes softened.
Later, at home, he helped put Luca to bed.
He sang badly.
Luca seemed unconcerned.
I stood in the doorway.
Vittorio noticed.
“What?”
I walked toward him.
“Nothing.”
He looked suspicious.
I kissed him.
Not fear.
Not relief.
Choice.
He froze.
Then kissed me back carefully.
When we separated, he whispered:
“Can I interpret that?”
I smiled.
“A little.”
His face changed.
Hope.
Dangerous.
Warm.
“Does that mean—”
“Do not ruin it.”
He laughed softly.
Luca woke.
Cried.
Romance ended.
May you like
Parenthood resumed.
Perfect.
