Chapter 8 - Family Day
Preschool family day was more frightening than federal testimony.
I am not exaggerating.
At least prosecutors told you what they wanted.
Three-year-olds handed you glue and expected immediate competence.
Nora wore a blue dress with a matching ribbon.
The same color as the day in the laundry room.
Sofia sat at a tiny table beside her.
I sat across from them in a chair designed for a person half my height.
My knees were near my ears.
A little boy named Owen stared.
“Are you a giant?”
“Yes.”
Nora corrected him.
“He’s Mr. Luca.”
Owen nodded.
“Giant Luca.”
Fine.
The teacher asked each family to make a paper house.
Nora chose blue walls.
Sofia chose yellow windows.
I was assigned the roof.
Apparently I cut crooked.
Nora was ruthless.
“That’s bad.”
“I run construction companies.”
“Bad roof.”
Sofia covered her mouth.
I fixed the roof.
Then families were asked to write one thing that made a home safe.
Parents wrote locks.
Love.
Food.
Hugs.
One father wrote smoke detectors.
Practical man.
Nora took the marker.
She wrote nothing because she could not write yet.
Instead, she drew two stick hands.
One big.
One small.
“What is that?” I asked.
“You caught me.”
My chest tightened.
The stool.
The fall.
I swallowed.
“That makes home safe?”
She nodded.
“When I fall, somebody catches.”
Sofia looked down.
I could not speak for a moment.
The teacher smiled.
“That’s a good answer.”
I looked around the classroom.
Crayon drawings.
Plastic chairs.
Snack crumbs.
Nothing impressive.
No guards.
No marble.
No power.
Yet I understood something there I had never understood in my estate.
Safety is not the absence of falling.
It is the reasonable belief someone will help afterward.
The Moretti world had always promised nobody could make us fall.
Impossible promise.
Nora had given me a better one.
After family day, we walked to the car.
A photographer waited across the street.
Paparazzi.
News about the investigation had made me interesting.
He shouted.
“Mr. Moretti! Is that Daniel Reyes’s widow?”
Sofia froze.
Nora looked confused.
“Who?”
The photographer raised his camera.
I stepped between them.
Old instinct.
Control.
Then stopped.
I looked at Sofia.
“What do you want?”
She understood.
“Leave.”
I nodded.
Marco opened the car.
We left.
No confrontation.
No confiscated camera.
No threats.
The next day, photos appeared online.
MAFIA HEIR TURNED REFORMER SPOTTED WITH HOUSEKEEPER AND CHILD.
I hated every word.
Sofia hated “housekeeper” most.
“I have a name.”
“Yes.”
Camila drafted a privacy complaint against the outlet for publishing Nora’s identifiable image.
We won a removal.
No threats required.
Sofia’s employment changed soon after.
She did not want to remain dependent on the estate forever.
“I’m applying to nursing school.”
I stared.
“You?”
She frowned.
“Thank you.”
“No. I mean—why?”
“Daniel used to say I should.”
“What stopped you?”
“Money. Nora. Life.”
I nodded.
“What do you need?”
She looked suspicious.
“Do not say tuition.”
I closed my mouth.
She laughed.
“I need schedule flexibility.”
“That we can do.”
“And childcare during evening labs.”
“Also possible.”
“No private driver.”
“I wasn’t going to—”
She stared.
“I was thinking.”
“I know.”
We arranged schedules available to any employee pursuing education.
Important.
Not Sofia-only charity.
Four other staff enrolled in programs.
Accounting.
HVAC certification.
Culinary school.
One housekeeper started community college.
I discovered that opportunity spreads quickly once people stop fearing absence.
Sofia started classes that fall.
She studied at the kitchen table after shifts.
Nora colored beside her.
I sometimes worked at the other end.
Not because I needed the kitchen.
Because the house felt different there.
One night, Nora fell asleep over a coloring book.
Sofia looked at me.
“Can you carry her?”
I almost laughed.
“Me?”
“You are the giant.”
Fair.
I lifted Nora.
She rested her head on my shoulder without waking.
I carried her to the cottage.
Sofia followed.
At the door, I handed Nora over.
Our hands touched.
Nothing dramatic.
But the moment changed.
We both felt it.
Sofia looked away first.
“Goodnight.”
“Goodnight.”
I walked back to the mansion angry at myself.
Not because I disliked her.
Because I liked her too much.
She was my employee.
A widow harmed by my company.
A mother whose housing still depended partly on my property.
Power mattered.
I called Camila the next morning.
“I need to change Sofia’s employment structure.”
She stared.
“Why?”
“Independent HR supervision. Fixed lease on the cottage unrelated to employment. Market-rate but subsidized through a transparent housing program.”
Camila’s eyes narrowed.
“Why now?”
“Because I need there to be no ambiguity.”
She leaned back.
“Oh.”
“Do not say it.”
“You like her.”
“I said do not.”
“You like your housekeeper.”
“She is going to nursing school.”
“That is not a defense.”
“I am not doing anything.”
“Good.”
I glared.
“I hate you.”
“Excellent.”
The changes took two months.
Sofia noticed.
“Why do I suddenly have a lease?”
“Because housing should not depend on my mood.”
She studied me.
“That’s the whole reason?”
“No.”
Her expression changed.
I continued before courage failed.
“I like you.”
Silence.
Sofia looked toward the cottage where Nora was asleep.
Then back at me.
“You are my employer.”
“Less directly now.”
“That is not romantic.”
“I know.”
“You own the house.”
“You have a lease.”
“You are impossible.”
“I have been told.”
Her mouth twitched.
Then she said, “Ask me again after I graduate.”
I stared.
“Nursing school is two years.”
“Yes.”
“That is unreasonable.”
“Goodnight, Luca.”
She closed the door.
I stood outside.
Then laughed.
Two years.
Apparently patience was my next reform project.
That night, I told Marco about Sofia’s answer.
“Two years?” he said.
“Yes.”
He laughed so hard he had to put down his coffee.
“What?”
“You used to make companies answer you in forty-eight hours.”
“This is different.”
“Clearly.”
I looked toward the cottage lights.
Waiting was uncomfortable because it removed leverage. I could not negotiate Sofia into wanting me. I could not accelerate graduation. I could not make the power imbalance disappear because I had good intentions.
For once, time was not an obstacle to defeat.
It was part of doing the thing correctly.
May you like
I hated that.
Which was probably why I needed it.
