Chapter 8 - The Last War I Refused to Fight
Vittorio’s arrest fractured what remained of the old Moretti organization.
Men who had spent decades calling him uncle, mentor, or boss began choosing sides.
Some blamed him.
Some blamed me.
Some blamed Valentina.
Most blamed the truth because truth is easier to hate than your own participation.
One captain, Lorenzo Greco, came to my office without invitation.
“You've handed family matters to prosecutors.”
“Yes.”
“Vittorio raised you.”
“Yes.”
“He made you.”
“No.”
That stopped him.
“Salvatore raised me.”
I looked toward Chiara’s piano through the open study doors.
“And Chiara saved whatever was left.”
Greco leaned forward.
“People think you're weak.”
“I've heard.”
“What do you plan to do?”
“Nothing.”
He laughed.
“You can't do nothing.”
“Watch me.”
“I have crews asking whether Callaway—”
Wrong story name? No, no Callaway. Let's correct mentally. Need final ensure no accidental from prior story. I need continue with Dante. Let's continue.
“People are asking whether you still control the South Side contracts, freight routes, the clubs.”
“No.”
Greco stopped.
“What?”
“I’m closing anything we cannot operate legally.”
He stared as though I had announced I was becoming a priest.
“You can't.”
“I own controlling interests.”
“Men depend on those businesses.”
“Then legitimate divisions stay. Illegal ones end.”
“You’re destroying us.”
“No.”
I thought of Chiara.
“I’m refusing to keep destroying everybody else.”
Greco stood.
“You think a maid and a little girl made you righteous?”
The insult was designed to hurt Giulia.
Instead, it clarified everything.
“No.”
I stood too.
“They reminded me righteousness isn't the goal.”
“What is?”
“Not becoming Vittorio.”
Greco left furious.
Three nights later, one of my warehouses burned.
Nobody was inside.
Investigators found accelerant.
A warning.
Luca wanted retaliation.
So did half my remaining captains.
I called police and my insurance company.
Luca stared at me.
“That's it?”
“What do you want?”
“You know.”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“No.”
He rubbed his face.
“I spent twenty years learning how to fight wars.”
“So did I.”
“And now?”
“Learn something else.”
We did.
Greco was arrested within two weeks after surveillance connected his men to the fire and an extortion attempt against another business.
No bodies.
No funerals.
No widows.
Just charges.
I began to understand why Chiara had wanted me out.
Violence had always felt efficient because we never counted the aftermath as part of the cost.
The Moretti companies underwent audits.
I surrendered accounts I knew were contaminated.
Paid penalties.
Cooperated with investigators on old financial operations.
My attorneys nearly mutinied.
Valentina supported me.
Luca complained and complied.
Some men walked away.
Good.
Giulia remained at the estate temporarily because Detective Collins believed threats were still possible while the legal cases developed.
But she refused to keep working as my maid.
“I can't date my employer.”
I almost choked.
“Date?”
Her cheeks flushed.
“That was hypothetical.”
“Interesting hypothetical.”
“Dante.”
I smiled for what felt like the first time in years.
She folded her arms.
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
“No.”
“What?”
“I didn't say yes.”
“I didn't ask yet.”
Mia looked up from her crayons.
“Ask what?”
“Nothing,” Giulia and I said together.
Mia frowned.
Adults were disappointing.
Giulia transitioned into a paid archival role working with an independent historical consultant documenting Chiara’s records for investigators and the estate.
Not under me.
She insisted on written terms.
I found that attractive.
Which was inconvenient.
Valentina noticed.
Of course.
“If you hurt her, I’ll kill you.”
I looked at my sister.
“I thought we were moving away from murder.”
“Metaphorically.”
“Progress.”
The criminal cases continued.
Vittorio eventually accepted a plea covering conspiracy, obstruction, financial crimes, and involvement in Marco’s death. Historical evidence around Salvatore and Chiara complicated exact charges, but enough remained to ensure he would spend what was likely the rest of his life in prison.
I did not visit again.
Marco’s remains were eventually located through Vittorio’s cooperation.
He had been buried under another name in rural Wisconsin.
I attended the reburial.
Only five people came.
Me.
Valentina.
Giulia.
Detective Collins.
And a priest who did not know the story.
I stood before the grave of a half-brother I had never met.
A man who killed the father who raised me.
A man who caused my wife’s death.
A man our biological father later killed.
There was no clean emotion available.
So I said nothing.
Sometimes silence is not cowardice.
Sometimes there are simply no words honest enough.
Months passed.
The Moretti organization shrank into legitimate holdings.
Restaurants.
Freight.
Property.
Security.
No extortion.
No political envelopes.
No hidden cash routes.
Revenue dropped.
Sleep improved.
That seemed like a fair trade.
Then one evening, I found Giulia in the ballroom.
She sat at Chiara’s piano.
Not touching it.
Mia slept across two chairs nearby.
“You know nobody sits there.”
Giulia looked guilty.
“Should I move?”
I stared at the piano.
Eight years.
Nobody had touched it.
Not until Mia.
Maybe rules created by grief should not become monuments.
“Can you play?”
Giulia shook her head.
“A little.”
“That means badly.”
“Very.”
I sat beside her.
She looked shocked.
“Dante?”
I lifted the fallboard.
Keys appeared.
White.
Black.
Dust-free beneath the cover.
I pressed one note.
The sound filled the ballroom.
My chest broke.
Not violently.
Quietly.
Giulia waited.
I played the first four notes of First Light.
Chiara’s melody.
Mia woke.
“Again.”
I laughed through tears.
So I played again.
Badly.
Giulia added one note.
Wrong.
I looked at her.
She smiled.
“Warned you.”
Then Mia climbed onto the bench between us and slapped both hands against the keys.
Noise exploded.
For eight years, I had protected Chiara’s piano from life.
Now a four-year-old filled it with terrible sound.
And somehow, for the first time, it felt like Chiara’s instrument again.
Not a coffin.
A piano.
After Mia fell asleep again, Giulia and I remained in the ballroom.
“I’m moving next month,” she said.
My chest tightened.
“Where?”
“Apartment in Evanston.”
“With Mia?”
“Generally children accompany mothers.”
I smiled weakly.
“Right.”
“I need a life outside this house.”
“I know.”
“You're not going to offer to buy the building?”
“I considered it.”
She glared.
“Then stopped.”
“Growth.”
She laughed.
I looked at her.
“Dinner.”
“What?”
“When you move.”
“Dinner?”
“Yes.”
“As what?”
“Two adults with no employment relationship.”
She stared.
“Is that your proposal?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“My proposals are better.”
Her eyes widened.
I laughed.
“Dinner, Giulia.”
She pretended to think.
Then smiled.
“Yes.”
That one word frightened me more than any gun had.
May you like
Because criminal wars had rules I understood.
Hope did not.
