Chapter 9 - When Dominic Lost Everything He Thought Made Him PowerfulDominic Caruso did not go to prison.
Marcus Santoro did.
Eighteen months after the red ledger became public, Marcus accepted a plea agreement that included six years in federal custody.
Dominic received three years of supervised probation, massive financial penalties, restrictions on certain corporate roles, and a requirement to continue cooperating with investigators.
The difference became controversial.
Some people called it justice.
Some called it proof that rich men always escaped.
Dominic never defended himself publicly.
When a reporter asked whether he believed his sentence was fair, he said:
“No sentence changes what happened.”
That became the headline.
But the punishment that changed Dominic most was not legal.
It was losing control of Caruso Holdings.
The board required him to step down as chief executive.
For the first time since he was thirty, Dominic woke on Monday morning with nowhere he was required to be.
He hated it.
For two weeks, he pretended otherwise.
He exercised.
Read.
Met attorneys.
Reviewed investments he was still legally permitted to hold.
By week three, he reorganized his kitchen cabinets twice.
By week four, he called me at work at 10:17 in the morning.
“What are you doing?”
“Running a publishing company.”
“You do not run the whole company.”
“I run enough of it to be unavailable at ten seventeen.”
Silence.
“Are you bored?”
“No.”
“You reorganized the spice drawer again, didn’t you?”
“It lacked logic.”
I laughed.
“Dominic.”
“Yes?”
“Get a hobby.”
“I have investments.”
“That is not a hobby.”
“Cooking.”
“You nearly poisoned Emma last month.”
“The chicken was underdone by a negligible margin.”
“She named it.”
“That was unnecessary.”
I smiled at my desk.
“Volunteer.”
Silence.
“What?”
“Do something useful where nobody cares about your last name.”
“I am not serving soup.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know how.”
“That may be exactly why.”
He hung up irritated.
Three days later, Emma sent me a photograph.
Dominic Caruso stood inside a community food center wearing an apron.
He looked furious.
Beside him, a seventy-year-old woman was pointing at a crate of potatoes.
Emma’s caption read:
Your terrifying fiancé has been demoted to vegetables.
I laughed until I cried.
We were engaged again by then.
Quietly.
No dramatic proposal.
Six months after the park conversation, Dominic handed me the ring over breakfast.
“You left this at my apartment.”
“I remember.”
“I’ve kept it.”
“I assumed.”
He placed it between us.
“I’m not asking a question.”
“Good.”
“I’m telling you it remains yours.”
“If someday you want to wear it again, wear it.”
“If not, keep it anyway.”
I stared at him.
“That is surprisingly emotionally healthy.”
“I resent your tone.”
I wore it the next morning.
We did not announce anything.
There was no wedding date.
That came later.
What mattered first was learning who Dominic was without an empire to manage.
It turned out he was annoying.
Deeply.
He had opinions about grocery stores.
He hated waiting in lines.
He could negotiate a hundred-million-dollar acquisition but somehow believed laundry detergent quantities were intuitive.
He had no concept of a normal vacation.
“What do people do for seven days?”
he asked when I suggested Maine.
“Rest.”
“For seven days?”
“Yes.”
“That seems medically concerning.”
I laughed.
We went anyway.
On the third day, Dominic stopped checking his phone every twenty minutes.
On the fifth, he read an entire novel.
On the sixth, he admitted he liked lobster rolls.
On the seventh, he asked whether we could stay another day.
I did not tease him.
Much.
Then, two months after Maine, my life changed.
Not Dominic’s.
Mine.
The publishing company’s CEO resigned unexpectedly.
The board offered me the job.
President and Chief Operating Officer.
A position I had not expected for another five years.
I read the offer three times.
Then called Emma.
She screamed.
Then I called Dominic.
“Can you come over?”
His voice changed immediately.
“Are you safe?”
“Yes.”
“Emma?”
“Fine.”
“Then what happened?”
“Just come over.”
He arrived twenty-five minutes later.
I handed him the letter.
He read it.
Then read it again.
I watched his face.
Pride came first.
Then something else.
Calculation.
“Chicago?”
“Yes.”
“The company wants you based there?”
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
“Permanent.”
Silence.
Here we were again.
A choice.
Except this time, I was not deciding whether to leave Dominic’s office.
I was deciding whether to leave New York.
“My probation restricts relocation.”
He said.
“I know.”
“For another sixteen months.”
“I know.”
He put the letter down.
“Do you want it?”
I laughed softly.
“You always ask that now.”
“It seems important.”
“Yes.”
“I want it.”
His face tightened.
“Then you should take it.”
I stared.
“That easy?”
“No.”
He looked almost offended.
“This is horrible.”
I laughed.
“I hate Chicago winters.”
“You’ve never lived through one.”
“I hate them preemptively.”
“I see.”
“I hate the idea of waking up without you.”
My smile faded.
“I hate knowing dinner requires a flight.”
“Dominic.”
“But you should take it.”
I sat beside him.
“What happens to us?”
“Sixteen months.”
“Flights.”
“Weekends.”
“Complaining.”
“Probably inappropriate amounts of phone communication.”
“And after probation?”
He looked at me.
“I move.”
My breath caught.
“You would move to Chicago?”
“Yes.”
“What about New York?”
“It will continue existing.”
“What about your investments?”
“Planes exist.”
“Your friends?”
“I have approximately four.”
I laughed.
“Three if Marcus is excluded.”
“He is definitely excluded.”
“Then three.”
I looked at him.
“You would really leave?”
Dominic’s expression softened.
“You left Caruso Holdings so our relationship could become a choice.”
“Why would I ask you to shrink your career now so mine can remain geographically convenient?”
There it was.
Not transformation as a grand gesture.
Transformation as a decision that cost him something.
I accepted the job.
Long distance was terrible.
Anyone who says distance makes the heart grow fonder has probably never tried discussing a broken dishwasher over video call while their fiancé is boarding a delayed flight at LaGuardia.
We fought.
Once, badly.
Dominic missed my first major company gala because an investor meeting ran late.
I did not answer his calls afterward.
He arrived in Chicago at seven the next morning.
I opened the door.
“You flew overnight?”
“Yes.”
“That is insane.”
“You’re angry.”
“Yes.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Because apologies should occasionally be inconvenient.”
That was irritatingly good.
I let him inside.
He did not blame the investor.
Did not say the meeting mattered.
He simply said:
“I promised I would be there.”
“I wasn’t.”
“I’m sorry.”
We repaired it.
Six months later, I made the same mistake.
Dominic had an important probation review.
I promised to fly to New York.
A crisis at work kept me in Chicago.
He said it was fine.
It was not.
I recognized the old habit immediately.
“Don’t.”
“What?”
“Pretend you’re not hurt because you think needing me makes you weak.”
His jaw tightened.
“That is unfair.”
“It is accurate.”
He looked away.
Then:
“I wanted you there.”
“I know.”
“I’m sorry.”
He nodded.
That was marriage practice, though we were not married yet.
Not never hurting each other.
Getting better at refusing to hide the injury.
A year after I moved, something unexpected happened.
Sofia Bellini called me.
We had not spoken since the investigation.
“Diana?”
“Yes.”
“This is Sofia.”
“I know.”
“I wanted to tell you before it becomes public.”
My stomach tightened.
“What?”
“The Bellini compensation case settled.”
I knew Dominic’s restitution fund had faced legal challenges.
Some former Caruso entities argued claims were too old.
Dominic had refused to withdraw the fund.
“How much?”
“Enough.”
Her voice changed.
“I sold Adrian’s restaurant.”
“Are you okay with that?”
“Yes.”
“My granddaughter is starting medical school.”
“I’m paying her tuition.”
I smiled.
“Adrian would have liked that?”
“He would have complained about the cost.”
I laughed softly.
Then silence.
Sofia said:
“I still don’t forgive Dominic.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.”
“But I no longer want to spend every day hating him.”
“That sounds healthier.”
“It is quieter.”
She paused.
“You helped him change.”
“No.”
The answer came automatically.
“He changed himself.”
“I just stopped rewarding him when he refused.”
Sofia laughed.
“I like that answer.”
Then she hung up.
That night I told Dominic.
He sat quietly.
“Does that help?”
I asked.
“No.”
I waited.
Then he corrected himself.
“Yes.”
“A little.”
Good.
His probation ended four months later.
No violations.
No new charges.
The next morning, I woke to find him packing.
I leaned against the bedroom doorway.
“What are you doing?”
“Moving.”
“To Chicago?”
“Yes.”
“You have not found an apartment.”
“We have yours.”
“My apartment has one closet.”
“You have seventy percent of it.”
“I earned that territory.”
“I am aware.”
I watched him fold a shirt badly.
“You’re serious.”
He looked up.
“I told you I would come.”
Emotion rose unexpectedly.
“You could stay in New York.”
“Yes.”
“You could rebuild.”
“Yes.”
“People would invest with you tomorrow.”
“Probably.”
“And?”
Dominic walked toward me.
“I spent twenty years building things because I thought size proved value.”
“Companies.”
“Buildings.”
“Influence.”
“I am interested in building something smaller.”
I swallowed.
“What?”
“A life.”
He touched my cheek.
Waited.
I leaned into his hand.
“With you.”
That weekend, Dominic Caruso moved into my two-bedroom Chicago apartment.
No penthouse.
No private elevator.
No marble floors.
The man once feared by half of New York spent Sunday afternoon assembling an IKEA bookshelf.
Badly.
I found him staring at three leftover screws.
“That seems concerning.”
“They are extra.”
“Are they?”
“Yes.”
The bookshelf leaned slightly.
“Dominic.”
“It is structurally sound.”
“It is leaning.”
“It has character.”
I laughed until my stomach hurt.
Then his phone rang.
He looked at the screen.
His expression changed.
“Who is it?”
“Federal corrections.”
My smile disappeared.
“Marcus?”
Dominic answered.
The conversation lasted less than a minute.
When he ended the call, he sat down.
“What happened?”
“Marcus was assaulted.”
“In prison?”
“Yes.”
“Is he alive?”
“Yes.”
“Barely.”
I sat beside him.
“Why did they call you?”
Dominic stared at the floor.
“Because Marcus listed me as his emergency contact.”
After everything.
After betrayal.
After manipulation.
After the ledger.
Marcus Santoro had still written Dominic Caruso’s name on the line that asked who should be called if he might die.
May you like
Dominic closed his eyes.
And I knew our past was not finished with us yet.
