Chapter 13 - SIX MONTHS WITHOUT HIM
Z
Six months after the divorce, I learned how quiet freedom could be.
Not lonely.
Quiet.
There was a difference.
My apartment smelled like cinnamon because I baked whenever I wanted.
Isabella had toys everywhere.
One plastic giraffe lived permanently beneath the couch.
Vincent stepped on it one afternoon and swore loudly enough that Isabella started laughing.
“You think that’s funny?” he asked her.
She laughed harder.
“Traitor.”
I stood in the kitchen smiling.
We had become something strange.
Not husband and wife.
Not friends exactly.
Parents.
Partners in the one thing that mattered more than our history.
Vincent never entered without knocking.
Never arrived unannounced.
Never changed my schedule without asking.
He attended pediatric appointments.
Changed diapers.
Learned how to sterilize bottles.
Once canceled a meeting because Isabella had a fever.
When I heard, I remembered myself in labor while he stayed with Sophia.
Some wounds healed slowly.
But healing was not the same as forgetting.
Sophia remained in federal custody awaiting trial on multiple charges.
Her cooperation helped prosecutors dismantle parts of Marco’s organization.
It did not erase what she had done.
Vincent never visited again.
I asked once.
“Do you hate her?”
He thought about it.
“No.”
That surprised me.
“What do you feel?”
“Nothing I want to carry.”
Therapy language.
I recognized it now.
“You’ve become annoying.”
“My therapist says that means I’m progressing.”
“Your therapist has never lived with you.”
“He’s a brave man.”
I laughed.
That happened more often now.
The biggest change was Moretti Holdings.
Vincent sold businesses that could not survive scrutiny.
Closed operations I deliberately did not ask about.
Cooperated with federal investigators under agreements negotiated by very expensive attorneys.
Some old associates called him a traitor.
Others quietly followed.
Money, apparently, could be made legally too.
Who knew?
Vincent transformed several warehouses into legitimate logistics centers.
Started a foundation for premature infant care.
When I heard about that, I confronted him.
“You named it the Isabella Foundation?”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t tell me.”
“I didn’t think I needed your approval to donate my money.”
“You used her name.”
His expression changed.
“You’re right.”
I expected him to argue.
Instead he said, “I’ll rename it if you want.”
I blinked.
Old habits.
I had arrived ready for combat.
There was no battle.
“Keep it.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
He smiled.
It was strange how attractive humility could make a man.
That annoyed me.
Then came the night Isabella said her first word.
Not Mama.
Not Dada.
“Dog.”
There was no dog.
Vincent stared at her.
“I bought you seven stuffed animals and you choose dog?”
“Dog,” Isabella repeated.
I laughed until I cried.
He filmed it.
Then Isabella pointed at him.
“Da.”
Vincent stopped breathing.
I saw the exact second his entire world changed.
“Did she…”
“Say it again,” I whispered.
“Da.”
Vincent covered his mouth.
His eyes filled.
“Don’t cry,” I teased.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“Something’s in my eye.”
“Your daughter?”
“Possibly.”
He picked her up.
Isabella grabbed his nose.
Vincent kissed her forehead.
I looked away because suddenly the room felt too intimate.
Later, after Isabella fell asleep, Vincent stood near the door.
“Claire.”
“Yes?”
“Can I ask something?”
“That sounds dangerous.”
“Dinner.”
I froze.
“With Isabella?”
“No.”
My heart changed rhythm.
He noticed.
“Forget it.”
“No. Wait.”
He stopped.
“Are you asking me on a date?”
“Yes.”
My ex-husband.
Father of my child.
Former Mafia boss.
Man who had broken my heart so thoroughly I once wrote goodbye letters from a hospital bed.
And he looked nervous.
I should have enjoyed that more.
“I’m not ready.”
He nodded instantly.
“Okay.”
“No argument?”
“No.”
“You’re not going to ask when?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because then it becomes pressure.”
I stared at him.
Therapy really was miraculous.
He opened the door.
“Good night, Claire.”
“Vincent.”
He looked back.
“I said I’m not ready.”
“I heard you.”
I swallowed.
“I didn’t say never.”
He became completely still.
I regretted the sentence immediately.
Not because it was false.
Because it was true.
Hope appeared on his face.
Small.
Careful.
Nothing like the arrogant certainty of the man who once laughed when I asked for a divorce.
“I can live with that,” he said.
Then he left.
I leaned against the closed door.
From the nursery, Isabella made a sleepy sound.
I walked toward her.
On the dining table sat Vincent’s forgotten phone.
The screen lit up.
Unknown Number.
One message.
I did not open it.
I didn’t need to.
The preview showed enough.
MORETTI, YOU THINK WALKING AWAY ERASES WHAT YOU OWE?
May you like
My blood went cold.
The past was not finished with him yet.
