Chapter 10 - The Truth About Isabella Changed EverythingThree months after Antonio’s arrest, a package arrived.
No threat.
No blood.
No weapon.
Just a letter.
It was from Isabella.
Gabriel had found it hidden among documents recovered from one of Antonio’s properties.
Deanna,
If you are reading this, then somehow you survived all of us.
I hope you’re angry.
Anger kept me alive longer than fear ever did.
But don’t let anger become your inheritance.
Our family has passed down too many terrible things already.
Money.
Secrets.
Violence.
Silence.
Maybe you can be the first to inherit something and change it.
I cried before reaching the second paragraph.
Dominic sat beside me.
I continued.
I knew about you for years.
Father forbade me from contacting you.
I did once.
You were nineteen.
I came to São Paulo.
My breath stopped.
I remembered.
A blonde woman in a café.
She had asked me for directions in terrible Portuguese.
She bought me coffee.
We talked for twenty minutes.
She told me she had a younger sister she wished she knew better.
“Oh my God.”
Dominic squeezed my hand.
The letter blurred through tears.
I was too afraid to tell you who I was.
That is one of my greatest regrets.
You laughed at my Portuguese.
You told me I dressed like someone attending a funeral.
You were right.
I smiled through tears.
I remembered her.
I actually remembered my sister.
She continued.
Dominic is not easy.
If you married him, I’m sorry.
He will probably drive you insane.
Dominic looked offended.
“She’s dead and still insulting me.”
I laughed.
Then continued.
But he keeps his promises.
Make him promise to let you remain yourself.
And make the same promise to him.
Neither of you needs another prison.
The final lines destroyed me.
Live, Deanna.
Not for Father.
Not for Mother.
Not for Dominic.
Not even for me.
Live because you finally can.
Your sister,
Isabella.
I folded the letter.
Dominic held me while I cried.
Not dramatic tears.
Quiet ones.
For a woman I had lost before I understood I had ever known her.
Later, Viviana read the letter.
She cried too.
Something between us changed permanently.
Grief had made us rivals when we should have been family.
We decided to build something in Isabella’s name.
Not a charity gala for wealthy people to congratulate themselves.
A real organization.
Safe housing and legal services for immigrant women escaping exploitation.
My mother joined from Brazil.
Elena helped.
Viviana funded the first center.
I ran it.
Dominic donated money and wisely stayed out of the meetings unless invited.
“You’re learning,” I told him.
“I’m terrified of the board.”
“You should be. It’s mostly women.”
“Exactly.”
Our marriage changed too.
We moved out of the Pradati estate.
I refused to live in a house filled with ghosts.
Dominic owned a quieter property overlooking the Hudson.
It had too many rooms.
I converted one into an office.
Another became a room for my mother whenever she visited.
Dominic watched me decorate.
“You hate that couch.”
“It’s yellow.”
“That’s why I love it.”
“It hurts my eyes.”
“Good.”
He kept it.
That was marriage.
Not grand declarations.
A powerful man tolerating an ugly yellow couch because his wife loved it.
One evening, six months after our wedding, we sat outside watching the river.
Dominic handed me a folder.
“What’s this?”
“Divorce papers.”
I stared at him.
“What?”
My stomach dropped.
Then I opened them.
Unsigned.
“I don’t understand.”
He looked nervous.
Dominic Unaretti.
Nervous.
“I told you I wished I could begin again.”
“Yes.”
“Our marriage started without real consent.”
My chest tightened.
“So I’m giving it back.”
“What?”
“Your choice.”
He nodded toward the papers.
“If you want out, sign them. Your mother’s care continues. Your work continues. Your security continues if you want it. Everything in our agreement remains.”
I stared at him.
“And if I don’t sign?”
“Then nothing changes.”
“You’re giving me a divorce?”
“I’m giving you the choice I should have given you at the beginning.”
My eyes filled.
“You idiot.”
“That response is becoming predictable.”
I tore the papers in half.
Then again.
Dominic watched.
“Is that legally binding?”
“No.”
“Good.”
I climbed onto his lap.
“I’m not staying because of a contract.”
“I know.”
“I’m not staying because you protected my mother.”
“I know.”
“I’m definitely not staying because you’re pleasant.”
“Obviously.”
I wrapped my arms around his neck.
“I’m staying because I choose you.”
His forehead touched mine.
“And I choose you.”
“Even with the yellow couch?”
He sighed.
“Let’s not say things we can’t take back.”
I laughed.
Then kissed him.
For the first time since coming to America, I understood what Isabella meant.
May you like
I was not living for survival anymore.
I was simply living.
