Chapter 8 - PRISON TOOK MY NAME AWAY FOR TWENTY MONTHS, AND SOPHIA WAS THE ONLY PERSON WHO NEVER SEEMED IMPRESSED BY IT IN THE FIRST PLACE
Federal prison made everything smaller.
Rooms.
Choices.
Clothes.
Time.
My name too.
Outside, Victor Moretti meant something.
Inside, I was Moretti, Victor A.
Number.
Schedule.
Count.
Breakfast at six.
Phone minutes.
Mail.
Men who wanted favors.
Men who wanted stories.
I gave neither.
The first letter arrived six days after intake.
From Sophia.
An envelope covered in stickers.
Inside:
Mr. Moretti,
Daddy says I have to write neatly because prison people read mail. Are prison people mean? School is boring. Mrs. Harlow made lemon cookies. Enzo says he is NOT babysitting me but he is lying because he took me for ice cream. Daisy is still alive. I mean the plant. We planted one.
Do not get into fights.
Sophia.
P.S. Marco is still bad but I don’t want him dead.
I laughed out loud.
My cellmate looked over.
“You okay?”
“No.”
Good.
I wrote back:
Sophia,
Prison people are mostly doing their jobs. School being boring is not a federal matter. Enzo is absolutely babysitting you. Do not tell him I said that.
I will avoid fights.
Victor.
P.S. I also do not want Marco dead.
Her next letter corrected me:
You forgot MR. Moretti.
Apparently titles mattered when she chose them.
Mateo visited every other month.
Sophia came sometimes.
Visits were difficult.
Metal detectors.
Rules.
Plastic chairs.
No running hug until permitted.
First time, she looked around and whispered:
“This is ugly.”
“Yes.”
“Your house was prettier.”
“Yes.”
“Do you miss it?”
“Some.”
Then:
“Do people listen to you here?”
“No.”
She smiled.
“Good.”
Mateo apologized.
I laughed.
“She’s right.”
Prison taught something I had avoided my entire adult life.
Authority is partly environmental.
Take away offices, money access, armed men, private cars—and a man learns which parts of himself remain.
I read.
Worked in facility library.
Took financial responsibility programs I could have mocked.
Didn’t.
A counselor asked:
“What did crime give you?”
“Power.”
“What did power give you?”
“Control.”
“What did control protect you from?”
I laughed.
Then stopped.
“Being afraid.”
There.
My father’s lesson.
Fear belongs to weak men.
So I built life where other people feared me first.
Sophia had been terrified the morning she warned me.
Still acted.
That was courage.
Not absence of fear.
I had spent decades confusing those things.
Marco wrote once.
Federal system allowed monitored correspondence.
His letter was short.
Victor,
I don’t know whether I have right to write.
You said relationship depends on what I do next.
I’m trying.
I gave full testimony.
I entered therapy.
I know that sounds pathetic.
I think about Sophia every day.
Not because I expect forgiveness.
Because I heard her cry when I took her and still kept driving.
I need to remember that.
Marco.
I waited a week.
Then answered.
Good.
That was all.
Not absolution.
Recognition.
Isabella wrote too.
I did not answer first three.
Fourth said:
I am not asking for reconciliation.
I know we are over.
I only want to say I testified fully about Vassallo and Stefano, including facts that increased my sentence.
I used fear as excuse until fear became greed.
I loved you.
I also tried to kill you.
I finally understand both can be true without one excusing the other.
I am sorry.
I read it twice.
Then filed away.
No response.
Some relationships end.
Truth can remain.
Outside, Moretti companies changed under monitors.
Enzo hated compliance.
His letters were mostly profanity disguised as updates.
Legitimate shipping survived.
Nightclubs with illegal back-end gambling were sold or closed.
Cash businesses audited.
Political favors ended.
Several old associates abandoned us.
Good.
Some threatened.
Police handled.
Better.
Mateo bought a small landscaping company with bank financing.
Not my money.
He wanted independence.
Sophia helped design logo.
A daisy.
Of course.
Mrs. Harlow retired from my estate after it was sold.
Yes.
I sold villa while in prison through counsel.
The place where bomb exploded.
The place Sophia was taken.
The place Isabella’s betrayal became visible.
I did not want to return there and pretend walls were family.
Proceeds partly went to forfeiture and legal obligations.
Some remained.
Enough.
Enzo wrote:
YOU SOLD THE HOUSE AND DIDN’T ASK ME.
I replied:
YOU DON’T LIVE THERE.
He answered:
PRISON MADE YOU RUDE.
Good.
After fourteen months, Sophia visited with a question.
She was nine.
Tall enough now that memory of seven-year-old barefoot girl already felt distant.
“Do you forgive Marco?”
“No.”
“Will you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you forgive Isabella?”
“No.”
“Do you hate them?”
I thought.
“Sometimes.”
She looked surprised.
“Still?”
“Yes.”
“Is that bad?”
“No.”
Then:
“You said hurting them would make you like problem.”
“Yes.”
“But hating is okay?”
“Feelings aren’t the same as choices.”
She nodded.
“Therapy says that.”
I almost smiled.
“Therapy stole it from me.”
“No.”
Then she asked:
“Do you forgive you?”
That question stayed.
I looked at Mateo.
He looked away.
Sophia waited.
“No.”
Her face softened.
“Will you?”
“I don’t know.”
She frowned.
“Maybe you should.”
I stared.
“Why?”
“Because you’re doing the punishment.”
I laughed softly.
“That’s not always enough.”
“What else?”
“Change.”
“Are you?”
“Trying.”
She nodded.
“Then maybe later.”
Good.
The child had no idea how much weight her permission carried.
Maybe that was why it mattered.
I served twenty months with credit.
Release date came in April.
I expected Enzo.
Mateo.
Maybe Mrs. Harlow.
Instead, outside gate stood a small group.
Mateo.
Sophia.
Enzo.
Mrs. Harlow.
Detective Hernandez.
That last one irritated me.
“What are you doing here?”
Hernandez shrugged.
“Wanted to make sure you actually came out.”
“Disappointed?”
“Ask me in six months.”
Fair.
Sophia held something behind her back.
I crouched.
She brought out a flowerpot.
One daisy.
Alive.
“You kept it?”
“It almost died twice.”
“Comforting.”
“Daddy overwatered.”
Mateo protested.
She ignored him.
Then she hugged me.
No hesitation.
I held her.
Twenty months.
No armed men.
No orders.
No organization.
Still, she came.
That mattered more than every title I had lost.
On drive away, Enzo asked:
“Where to?”
I thought.
For first time in my adult life, there was no villa.
No fortified estate.
No office waiting.
“No idea.”
Sophia leaned forward from back seat.
“Pancakes.”
I smiled.
May you like
“Pancakes.”
Of course.
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