Chapter 9 - THE DAY EMMA ASKED WHY HER FATHER NEVER CAME HOME
Emma was ten when Sophia decided she was old enough to know more.
Not everything.
Enough.
By then, the public trials had ended.
Vittorio remained in prison.
Lorenzo too.
Isabella had completed her sentence and lived in New Jersey with Julian.
She worked for a nonprofit administrative service after struggling to find employment.
She never returned to my life romantically.
Obviously.
But once a year, she sent a photograph of Julian.
I replied:
Thank you.
That was all.
Sophia and I had become something complicated.
Family.
Not romantic.
People assumed otherwise.
A powerful man.
A beautiful woman.
Shared child in the family.
Everyone wants a romance.
No.
Sophia had loved my brother.
I respected that.
I loved her differently.
As the woman who protected Emma when the Moretti name was dangerous.
As someone who could tell me I was wrong without wondering whether the relationship would disappear.
That was rare.
Emma split time between Sophia’s modest Brooklyn home and occasional weekends at my estate by her own request.
I never sought custody.
Gabriel’s warning stayed with me.
Be her uncle.
So I did.
Badly at first.
Too many gifts.
Sophia returned half.
I bought Emma a pony when she turned eight.
Sophia nearly killed me.
The pony moved to a professional stable where Emma could ride twice a month.
Compromise.
At ten, Emma came to my house carrying the same old photograph.
Sophia had preserved it inside a protective sleeve.
“Mom says I can ask.”
I put down my book.
“Ask what?”
“Why Daddy died.”
There it was.
Sophia sat nearby.
She nodded.
Her choice.
I began carefully.
“Your father discovered people in our family were doing things that could hurt other people.”
“What things?”
“Stealing money. Breaking laws.”
“Grandpa Vittorio?”
“Great-uncle Vittorio.”
“Whatever.”
Fair.
“Yes.”
“Did Daddy tell you?”
“He tried.”
“Did you listen?”
My throat tightened.
“No.”
Emma stared.
“Why?”
“I didn’t understand what he was trying to tell me before he died.”
“That’s not the same.”
She had inherited Sophia’s precision.
“No.”
I took a breath.
“After he died, I believed the wrong person caused it.”
“Gabriel.”
“Yes.”
“You tried to kill him.”
Children become brutal when given accurate nouns.
“Yes.”
Sophia watched me.
No rescue.
Emma’s face changed.
“Uncle Alessandro.”
“Yes?”
“That’s terrible.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I was angry and believed evidence I did not check properly.”
“Did Gabriel forgive you?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“You’d have to ask him.”
“I will.”
Of course.
Then:
“Did Vittorio kill Daddy?”
I answered carefully.
“A jury decided he participated in the plan that caused your father’s death.”
“Did Lorenzo?”
“He participated too.”
Emma looked at the photograph.
“Isabella told him about me.”
“Yes.”
“Did she know Daddy would die?”
“No evidence says she did.”
“Mom says she still did something bad.”
“Yes.”
“Do you forgive her?”
I considered.
“In some ways.”
“Why?”
“Because carrying hatred forever did not protect anyone.”
Emma frowned.
“Is that adult talk for you got tired?”
I laughed.
“Yes.”
She smiled slightly.
Then the hardest:
“Did Daddy love me?”
I leaned forward.
“Yes.”
“How do you know?”
I brought out Matteo’s letter.
Not the whole thing.
A copied paragraph Sophia approved.
There is someone in my life. She may be carrying my child. If she is, protect them by giving them choices, not Moretti chains.
Emma read slowly.
Then again.
“He didn’t know if I was a girl.”
“No.”
“What did he want to name me?”
Sophia laughed.
“Matteo wanted Luca if you were a boy.”
“What if girl?”
“He suggested Francesca.”
Emma looked horrified.
“Thank God.”
We laughed.
Grief can share a room with humor.
Then she asked:
“Why am I Emma?”
Sophia answered.
“My grandmother.”
“Better.”
Later that day, Gabriel came.
Emma cornered him immediately.
“Why did you forgive Uncle Alessandro?”
Gabriel looked at me.
I shrugged.
His problem.
He sat beside Emma.
“Because he admitted exactly what he did.”
“That’s it?”
“No.”
“He stopped asking me to pretend it wasn’t his fault.”
Emma nodded.
Gabriel continued.
“And because I wanted my life back more than I wanted to spend it hating him.”
She looked toward me.
“Everyone says that.”
“Because adults repeat themselves.”
“Also true.”
Then Emma asked Gabriel about Matteo.
Stories came.
Your father once drove a boat into the dock because he was flirting.
Your father hated olives.
Your father cheated at poker.
Your father once rescued a dog from the highway and then claimed he hated dogs.
Sophia laughed.
I remembered.
Emma listened for two hours.
That was the day Matteo stopped being a murder victim to his daughter.
He became a man.
Flawed.
Funny.
Late.
In love.
A father who never got to hold her.
That mattered.
Years passed.
Emma chose to use Matteo’s personal inheritance to create something unexpected.
At sixteen, after seeing how many children in organized-crime families were pulled into adult disputes, she proposed a scholarship fund.
Sophia insisted professional advisers handle it.
I offered money.
Emma refused.
“This is Dad’s.”
Correct.
The Matteo Rossi-Moretti? She may keep Rossi. Let's call Matteo Moretti Choice Fund.
She named it the Matteo Choice Fund.
Its purpose:
Education and relocation assistance for young people leaving coercive family systems.
Not specifically mafia.
Any controlling family environment.
When I saw the word choice, I cried privately.
Matteo had asked me to give them choices.
His daughter turned the instruction outward.
At eighteen, Emma legally added Moretti as a middle name.
Emma Moretti Rossi.
Not surname.
Middle.
“Why?”
She told me:
“Because Matteo is part of me.”
Then:
“Rossi is who raised me.”
Sophia cried.
So did I.
Gabriel pretended allergies.
At twenty-one, Emma graduated college.
Criminal justice?
Everyone expected.
No.
Architecture.
She wanted to design transitional housing.
I laughed.
Apparently Moretti children eventually reject all expected careers.
Good.
During graduation dinner, Isabella arrived unexpectedly? No. Better later.
She sent Emma a letter asking permission to meet.
Emma knew Isabella’s role.
She was now old enough.
“Should I?”
She asked Sophia.
Sophia answered:
“What do you want?”
Emma looked at me.
I repeated:
“What do you want?”
Nobody decided for her.
She met Isabella.
One hour.
Public café.
Sophia nearby.
I stayed away.
Afterward, Emma told me:
“She apologized.”
“Do you believe her?”
“Yes.”
“Forgive?”
“Not yet.”
Good.
Then:
“Julian seems nice.”
Isabella’s son was thirteen.
He knew Lorenzo was his biological father but had no relationship beyond supervised letters during childhood.
He carried no responsibility.
Emma eventually became friendly with him.
Two children born inside the same conspiracy.
Neither chose it.
May you like
That became the most satisfying revenge against Vittorio’s vision.
They refused to inherit the war.
