Chapter 12 - Ask Me TomorrowThe Moretti archive occupied 3 rooms beneath a building in Little Italy and smelled of paper, dust, and expensive attempts to hide sin.
Dante gave me unrestricted access.
It cost him politically.
I learned that from Renzo.
Several older capos objected to a civilian woman reading records dating back 40 years.
Dante informed them they could accept it or resign.
2 resigned.
1 returned the following morning.
The other disappeared to Florida.
Apparently retirement became attractive when the alternative was arguing with Dante.
For 7 weeks, Helena and I read.
Invoices.
Telephone logs.
Payment books.
Photographs.
Meeting notes.
My mother appeared across 12 files.
My father across 31.
Matteo Ferraro across 8.
Alessandro Moretti everywhere.
The story became clear slowly.
Alessandro had not been a single kind of man.
I wanted him to be.
Villains were easier when flat.
He ordered murders.
Protected families.
Paid politicians.
Funded hospitals.
Killed Matteo.
Killed my mother.
Later protected Richard out of guilt.
Paid anonymously toward Helena’s school expenses for 2 years before Richard’s hidden transfers stopped.
I found the record myself.
The payment had covered one semester when I believed a scholarship extension saved us.
I closed the ledger.
Dante sat across the room.
He had remained present during most research sessions but never interfered.
“My sister attended school using money from the man who killed our mother.”
“Yes.”
“That is disgusting.”
“Yes.”
“Do not defend him.”
“I will not.”
I looked at him.
He meant it.
Dante’s relationship with his dead father had changed too.
He removed Alessandro’s portrait from the Moretti headquarters.
Renzo told me this quietly.
The old capos considered it nearly sacrilegious.
Dante considered it accurate.
He also opened internal records to an attorney outside the organization and began separating Moretti’s legitimate businesses from criminal operations.
Slowly.
Not cleanly.
Real worlds did not transform through speeches.
Some operations stopped.
Some men left.
Some income disappeared.
Others resisted.
Dante did not become a good man because I loved him.
I would have distrusted that more than anything.
He remained dangerous.
But direction mattered.
The archive gave us 6 living names connected directly to my mother’s death.
2 were Bellini men already dead.
1 retired mechanic living in Pennsylvania.
1 former Moretti soldier with dementia.
1 attorney.
And Aldo.
I stared at the page.
“No.”
Dante was silent.
“Aldo?”
“Yes.”
“What did he do?”
“He delivered your mother’s schedule to Alessandro.”
My throat tightened.
The Victoria.
Again.
“Did he know why?”
“No record says.”
I stood immediately.
“I need to speak to him.”
“I’ll come.”
“No.”
Dante stopped.
“I need to do this alone.”
He nodded.
No argument.
Progress.
Aldo was inside the Victoria staff room when I arrived.
His black notebook rested on the table.
He looked up.
Saw my face.
Then closed the notebook.
“You found it.”
I sat opposite.
“You knew my mother.”
“Yes.”
“You worked with her.”
“Yes.”
“You gave Alessandro Moretti her schedule.”
Aldo’s eyes lowered.
“Yes.”
Anger burned.
“Why?”
“He told me he wanted to speak with her.”
“You believed him?”
“Yes.”
“Were you stupid?”
“Yes.”
The immediate answer disarmed me.
Aldo rubbed his forehead.
“I was 26. Alessandro had helped my father. He had given me the restaurant job.”
“You were Moretti.”
“I carried messages.”
“You said you never—”
“I never became a soldier.”
“That does not make you innocent.”
“No.”
His eyes became wet.
“I knew Lucia was frightened that week.”
My breath caught.
“She asked me whether anyone had been asking about her shifts.”
“And?”
“I lied.”
I stood.
The chair moved backward.
“You lied to my mother.”
“Yes.”
“She died because you lied.”
“Yes.”
I wanted to strike him.
He did not move.
Perhaps every guilty man in my life had decided to become furniture.
“What happened after?”
“I realized what Alessandro had done.”
“And you stayed.”
“I stayed because Richard asked me.”
That stopped me.
“What?”
“Your father needed someone near you.”
I stared.
“Aldo watched us?”
“From a distance.”
“Did Dante know?”
“No.”
“Why did you hire me?”
Aldo smiled sadly.
“Because you applied.”
“No.”
“Issa.”
He had never used Helena’s nickname for me.
My mother used to.
I became cold.
“Do not call me that.”
He nodded.
“Your application arrived. I recognized the surname. I hired you because I knew who you were.”
Another adult making decisions around me.
“You watched me for years.”
“I watched whether anyone watched you.”
“That is not different enough.”
“No.”
He accepted everything.
It infuriated me.
“Why did you not tell me about Dad?”
“I did not know he was alive.”
“About Mom?”
“I was a coward.”
Finally.
No protection.
No promise.
Coward.
I sat again.
“What do you want from me?”
“Nothing.”
“Forgiveness?”
“No.”
“Then why stay when you knew I would eventually learn?”
Aldo looked at the black notebook.
“Because your mother once told me that if someone creates a debt through cowardice, leaving does not pay it.”
My throat tightened.
“She said that?”
“Yes.”
“About whom?”
“Your father.”
I laughed despite myself.
Of course.
Aldo slid the black notebook across the table.
“What is this?”
“My records.”
“Of what?”
“Everything I observed since Lucia died.”
I opened it.
Dates.
License plates.
Names.
People asking about me.
Collectors.
Strange customers.
Dante’s investigators.
Bellini men.
18 years of watching shadows.
Aldo had failed my mother once.
Then built his life around noticing every threat afterward.
It did not undo anything.
But it explained the tired eyes.
The leaking fountain pen.
The shoulder.
Wrong room.
He had been afraid every room might become wrong again.
I closed the notebook.
“I do not forgive you.”
“I know.”
Wrong sentence.
But from Aldo, it sounded different.
Not defense.
Acceptance.
“I may never.”
“That belongs to you.”
Better.
I left the restaurant.
Dante waited across the street.
Not inside.
He leaned against a dark car, hands visible.
I crossed toward him.
He opened the door.
I did not enter.
“Aldo knew.”
“Yes.”
“He gave her schedule.”
“Yes.”
“He spent 18 years trying to compensate.”
“Yes.”
“I hate him.”
“I understand.”
“I also do not.”
Dante nodded.
“People are inconvenient.”
I looked at him.
“That is almost philosophy.”
“I disliked it too.”
I smiled weakly.
He did not touch me.
“Come home with me,” I said.
His expression changed.
“Which home?”
The question mattered.
Chelsea?
Penthouse?
Queens no longer existed for us.
I stepped closer.
“Yours.”
He remained still.
“For tonight?”
“For tonight.”
He nodded.
No assumption.
The penthouse looked different after 2 months away.
Same rugs.
Same enormous windows.
Same quiet.
But I no longer felt captive inside it.
The guest room door remained open.
My old toothbrush had disappeared.
Good.
Dante did not preserve me as an artifact.
We entered the kitchen.
He made pasta.
Badly.
I watched.
“You own 4 restaurants.”
“5.”
“Of course.”
“I do not cook in them.”
“That is obvious.”
He looked toward the sauce.
“What is wrong?”
“Everything.”
I moved beside him.
Our shoulders touched.
Neither person moved away.
I showed him how much salt.
He disagreed.
I threatened him with the wooden spoon.
He surrendered.
We ate standing beside the counter because the enormous dining table suddenly seemed ridiculous.
Afterward, we went to the balcony.
The city spread beneath us.
For once, Dante left his phone inside.
“I finished the archive today,” I said.
“I know.”
I looked at him.
“Renzo?”
“Helena.”
“Traitor.”
“She likes me.”
“She likes your driver.”
Dante’s expression became unreadable.
Interesting.
Very interesting.
I stored it for later.
“I know everything about your father that remains knowable.”
“Yes.”
“I know what he did to my family.”
“Yes.”
“I know what you hid.”
“Yes.”
“I know what you have done.”
His jaw tightened.
“Yes.”
I looked toward Manhattan.
“I kept waiting for the full truth to make the choice easy.”
“It did not.”
“No.”
Cold wind moved my hair.
“There is no clean version of you.”
“No.”
“There is no clean version of me either.”
He turned.
I continued.
“I have lied. Manipulated. Hit people. Helped conceal information because releasing it could trigger violence.”
“You hit me.”
“You deserved it.”
“Yes.”
I smiled.
Then became serious.
“I do not want to become someone who excuses everything because I love you.”
“I do not want that either.”
“If you order innocent people hurt, I leave.”
“I know.”
“If you lie about my family again, I leave.”
“Yes.”
“If you place Helena under surveillance without permission, she may kill you before I can leave.”
“That seems possible.”
I laughed.
Dante stepped closer.
Still no touch.
“What do you want from me?” he asked.
The question was simple.
Months earlier, I would have answered safety.
Money.
Freedom.
Truth.
Now:
“Practice.”
He frowned.
“What?”
“I want you to practice asking.”
His eyes softened.
“For decisions?”
“For everything.”
“Everything?”
“Yes.”
I stepped within 1 inch.
His breathing changed.
“May I touch you?”
The question was quiet.
“Yes.”
His hand moved to my waist.
Slowly.
“May I kiss you?”
“Yes.”
He did.
The kiss felt nothing like the Victoria.
Nothing like the second kiss inside the empty restaurant.
This one contained too much history to pretend innocence.
My hands moved beneath his coat.
His heart beat steadily.
When we separated, he pressed his forehead against mine.
“May I ask something else?”
“Yes.”
“Move in.”
I laughed against his mouth.
“That was not a question.”
He closed his eyes.
“Will you move in?”
“No.”
His eyes opened.
I smiled.
“Ask me again next month.”
Something between frustration and amusement crossed his face.
“Cruel.”
“Practice.”
He kissed my forehead.
1 month later, he asked again.
I said no.
2 months later, he asked.
I said perhaps.
On the 4th month, Helena moved into an apartment with her roommate and informed me that my Chelsea lease renewal was “financially irrational.”
I accused her of Moretti propaganda.
She denied it while Renzo carried boxes behind her.
Interesting.
Very interesting.
That evening, Dante asked again.
I looked around the penthouse.
The guest room had become a study for me because he changed nothing without asking.
Half the kitchen contained my inexpensive pans despite his outrage.
A red copy of my mother’s recipe book rested on the shelf.
The original remained inside a secure legal archive with 4 duplicate guardians.
My shoes stood beside his.
Ordinary shoes.
Mine.
I looked at Dante.
“Ask correctly.”
His expression became serious.
“Isidora Veil, will you make this your home with me?”
I took my time.
He waited.
“I will.”
The crack that appeared was no longer countable.
It became a smile.
A real one.
Rare enough that I still believed I had discovered something no one else knew existed.
He pulled me closer.
“May I—”
“Dante.”
“Yes?”
“Sometimes you may stop asking.”
“Conditions?”
“Obviously.”
He laughed.
Actually laughed.
The sound filled the kitchen.
Months later, the Victoria hosted Helena’s graduation dinner.
She finished with honors.
Forensic accounting.
Renzo sat beside her.
Not as an uncle.
I had been correct.
Dante pretended not to notice their hands beneath the table.
I considered mentioning it.
Then decided patience was educational.
Aldo served wine.
Our relationship remained complicated.
He no longer called me kid.
I no longer hated hearing his voice.
That was enough for now.
At the end of dinner, Dante led me toward Table 7.
A small box waited.
I stopped.
“No.”
He froze.
“What?”
“If that is what I think it is, you are not asking in front of 40 people.”
He looked genuinely offended.
“I would never.”
“Good.”
He opened the box.
Inside was not a ring.
It was a key.
I frowned.
“What?”
“The Victoria.”
“I already have keys.”
“Ownership.”
I stared.
“No.”
“Half ownership.”
“No.”
“You rebuilt it.”
“No.”
“You manage it.”
“For salary.”
“You preserved it.”
“Dante.”
He lifted both hands.
“Practice.”
I narrowed my eyes.
He corrected.
“Will you accept 50 percent ownership of the Victoria?”
“No.”
He sighed.
Helena laughed from across the room.
“Ask next year!”
I pointed at her.
“Stay out of this.”
Renzo raised his glass.
Traitors surrounded me.
Dante closed the box.
“Next year.”
“Perhaps.”
He took my hand.
Outside, snow began falling over Manhattan.
Soft.
Almost theatrical.
The new window beside Table 7 reflected us.
A waitress’s daughter.
A Don’s son.
Both carrying histories we had not chosen.
Both refusing to pretend those histories disappeared simply because love became convenient.
I looked down at the repaired baseboard.
The outline of a bullet remained beneath the paint.
I remembered the 1st night.
3 men entering.
My hand around a wine bottle.
The impossible decision to cross the dining room.
“Do you ever wonder what would have happened if I had run?” I asked.
Dante considered.
“I would probably have survived.”
“Arrogant.”
“Accurate.”
“And me?”
His fingers tightened gently around mine.
“You would have survived too.”
I looked at him.
“You believe that?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because you were never waiting for me to save you.”
The answer settled inside me.
Correct.
That was the difference between our story and every lie people told about dangerous men and women who loved them.
Dante had not rescued me from poverty.
He had not repaired my family.
He had not transformed me.
I saved him before knowing his name.
I saved myself before meeting him.
He had simply become someone willing to stand beside that fact instead of competing with it.
I leaned against his shoulder.
“Ask me.”
He knew the question.
He always did.
“Are you certain?”
I looked around the Victoria.
At Helena.
Renzo.
Aldo.
The table.
My mother’s invisible memory.
My father’s complicated absence.
The city beyond the glass.
Then I looked at Dante.
“Tonight?”
“Yes.”
“Yes.”
Tomorrow would come with new information.
New mistakes.
Perhaps new enemies.
Dante’s world did not become safe.
Mine never had been.
But I no longer measured safety by whether danger existed.
I measured it by whether I was permitted to see the truth, choose my place, and leave the door open behind me.
Dante raised my hand and kissed my knuckles.
No claim.
No ownership.
Only recognition.
The answering machine from Queens no longer existed.
The debt collectors stopped calling.
Helena no longer studied beneath a lamp because electricity might be shut off.
My father’s secrets no longer belonged only to men in dark rooms.
My mother’s recipes had outlived every person who tried to silence her.
And the man I once kissed as a lie had learned to ask for the truth.
For now, that was enough.
More than enough.
The snow continued falling.
May you like
Table 7 remained beside the window.
And for the 1st time in generations, nobody seated there was hiding anything.
