Chapter 9 - What Vincent Chose to Become
The federal case lasted eleven months.
Trials always looked dramatic on television.
In reality, they contained paperwork.
Endless paperwork.
Depositions.
Continuances.
Motions.
Arguments about records.
Experts explaining financial structures nobody in the jury wanted to understand.
Vincent testified for six hours.
Raymond stared at him from the defense table.
The man who had once controlled Vincent’s legal world now looked smaller.
Not harmless.
Just exposed.
Prosecutors asked about Northern Prairie.
Vincent answered.
About his father.
Answered.
About old Marchetti operations.
Answered carefully.
Then Raymond’s attorney stood.
“Mr. Marchetti, you expect this jury to believe you suddenly became an honest man?”
Objection.
Overruled.
Vincent considered.
“No.”
The attorney looked surprised.
“No?”
“No.”
“What should they believe?”
“That evidence exists regardless of whether I am a good man.”
The courtroom went quiet.
“You have committed crimes.”
“Yes.”
“You have threatened people.”
“Yes.”
“Used violence.”
“In the past, yes.”
“And now we're supposed to trust your testimony?”
“No.”
Vincent looked at the jury.
“Trust the bank records. The insurance policies. Javier Ruiz’s files. Hospital records. Security footage. Don't trust me because I say something.”
The attorney changed direction quickly.
That moment appeared in newspapers the next morning.
MAFIA FIGURE TELLS JURY: “DON’T TRUST ME.”
Alina hated the headline.
Mia liked the picture.
“Vincent TV.”
“Unfortunately.”
Raymond was convicted.
Not every count.
Enough.
He received decades in federal prison.
Matteo received eleven years.
Vincent visited him once before transfer.
They sat across a metal table.
Matteo looked tired.
“You happy?”
“No.”
“Good.”
Vincent frowned.
“Why good?”
“Would've been disturbing.”
They both laughed slightly.
Then Matteo became serious.
“You did what I couldn't.”
“What?”
“Stayed.”
Vincent looked at him.
“You ran from Dad. Then Vale. Then your own guilt.”
Matteo nodded.
“I know.”
“Prison doesn't repair everything.”
“No.”
“But maybe stop running.”
Matteo smiled.
“You sound like Mom.”
That hurt.
“I miss her.”
“So do I.”
They sat quietly.
Before leaving, Vincent placed something on the table.
Photograph.
Their mother between them when they were teenagers.
Matteo stared.
“I thought this burned.”
“I had a copy.”
His brother’s eyes filled.
“Thanks.”
Vincent nodded.
Nothing more needed.
Outside, Alina waited in her car.
Vincent climbed in.
“You okay?”
“No.”
“Want to talk?”
“No.”
“Okay.”
She started driving.
Five minutes later he said:
“Our mother made terrible lasagna.”
Alina laughed.
“I thought Italians weren't allowed to say that.”
“Marchetti secret.”
“She burned it?”
“Every time.”
And just like that, grief became survivable.
Vincent’s business empire changed too.
He sold several companies connected to old criminal infrastructure.
Closed others.
Converted two former warehouses into legitimate cold-storage centers.
Created an independent employee safety office with external oversight.
Alina helped design part of it.
She refused a Marchetti salary.
Again.
“You’re difficult.”
“So are you.”
He established the Javier Ruiz Whistleblower Fund.
Alina nearly rejected the name.
Then Mia said:
“Daddy help people.”
That ended the debate.
The fund provided legal assistance, relocation, and emergency financial help to employees reporting serious corporate misconduct.
Vincent made one rule.
No executive—including Vincent—could block a report.
Dominic retired from security.
For six weeks.
Then returned as consultant because apparently retirement made him “aggressively bored.”
Frank moved out of Illinois after sentencing and cooperation requirements.
Before leaving, he asked to see Vincent.
They met at a diner.
“You hate me?” Frank asked.
Vincent drank coffee.
“Sometimes.”
“Fair.”
“You saved me and betrayed me.”
“Yes.”
“Helped Javier and failed him.”
“Yes.”
“Helped kidnap Ethan, then helped rescue him.”
“Yes.”
Vincent looked exhausted.
“You're a complicated man.”
Frank smiled.
“So are you.”
They shook hands.
Not forgiveness.
Not friendship.
Closure.
The biggest change happened on a Saturday morning.
Mia was four.
Vincent arrived at Alina’s house wearing jeans.
She stared.
“What happened?”
“What?”
“You own jeans?”
“Apparently.”
“Are those new?”
“No.”
“They still have fold lines.”
Vincent sighed.
Mia ran out.
“Zoo!”
Vincent looked at Alina.
“You didn't tell me.”
“You said you wanted normal.”
He had.
So the feared Vincent Marchetti spent four hours at Lincoln Park Zoo.
He held a paper cup of lemonade.
Waited in line.
Was ignored by a goat.
Bought Mia a stuffed giraffe despite Alina saying she already owned enough stuffed animals.
“This one has educational value.”
“How?”
“Long neck.”
Alina stared.
“You're terrible at this.”
“I’m learning.”
They ate hot dogs on a bench.
Mia fell asleep against Vincent’s chest.
Alina watched him.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You're staring.”
“I'm thinking.”
“Dangerous.”
She smiled.
Then became serious.
“Do you want children?”
Vincent looked at Mia.
“I don't know.”
“That's honest.”
“I used to think no.”
“Why?”
“Because children become leverage.”
Alina's expression softened.
“And now?”
“Now I think that's a terrible reason.”
“Yes.”
He looked at her.
“I want this.”
Alina's breathing changed.
“This?”
“You.”
He glanced at Mia.
“Her.”
Then the crowded park.
“Something ordinary enough that nobody cares when I enter a room.”
“You'll never be ordinary.”
“I know.”
She smiled.
“Neither is Mia.”
“Definitely not.”
Vincent reached into his pocket.
Not ring.
Too soon.
Instead:
A key.
Alina stared.
“What’s that?”
“My house.”
Her expression tightened.
Vincent immediately continued.
“Not move in.”
She relaxed slightly.
“Good save.”
“I’m learning.”
“What is it for?”
“So you stop waiting at the gate every time you visit.”
“That seems dangerous.”
“Why?”
“You gave a maid unrestricted access to the mafia boss’s mansion.”
“Former maid.”
“Still.”
Vincent looked at her.
“I trust you.”
That word mattered.
She took the key.
Then she kissed him.
Slowly.
Mia woke.
“Eww.”
May you like
They laughed.
For once, happiness arrived without a cliffhanger.
