Chapter 9 - Eighteen Months of Thursdays
Prison removed illusions efficiently.
Nobody cared that I had once owned restaurants where reservations took six months.
Nobody cared how many warehouses carried the Moretti name.
Nobody cared that newspapers had called me dangerous.
There was a number.
A schedule.
A bunk.
Rules.
For the first month, I hated every second.
Then letters began arriving.
Sophie wrote on Thursdays.
Apparently Thursday was sacred because that was the day my car died.
Her first letter contained a drawing of my sedan with smoke pouring from the hood.
Underneath:
UNCLE ADRIAN CAR BROKE. GOOD.
I laughed for five minutes.
Mara's note beneath it read:
She refuses to change the wording.
Another letter:
I changed oil with Mommy. You still bad at cars?
I wrote back:
Yes. Some traditions matter.
Another:
I lost tooth. Poppy did not take it. Tooth fairy did.
Another:
Uncle Adrian, Daddy birthday today. We ate chocolate cake because Mommy says he liked chocolate. I saved you fake piece on paper.
She had drawn cake.
I kept every letter.
Mara wrote less often but more deeply.
She told me about Julian.
Not the tragedy.
The man.
How he sang terribly.
How he used to leave tools on the kitchen table.
How he once drove forty miles because Sophie wanted to see cows.
How he had forgiven my father partially before dying but never trusted Vittorio.
One letter contained a photograph.
Julian holding infant Sophie inside the garage.
His shirt covered in grease.
His face full of joy.
I stared at that picture for hours.
My brother.
A man I never met.
Yet sometimes, through Sophie, I felt like I knew him.
The legal world continued outside.
Vittorio was convicted.
The evidence from Julian’s garage proved decisive.
Nico testified.
Several corrupt business networks collapsed.
Some Moretti companies survived audits and became fully independent legitimate corporations.
Others were dissolved.
I lost most of the wealth tied to criminal activity.
I kept enough legal assets to live comfortably.
Strangely, I did not care.
More surprising:
Mara expanded the garage.
Not using Sophie's trust.
Not using my money.
A small-business loan.
She hired two mechanics.
Then created weekend workshops teaching basic vehicle repair to local teenagers.
When I heard, I wrote:
Julian would be proud.
Mara replied:
So would Sophie if teenagers stopped touching her tools.
Sophie turned seven while I was inside.
I missed the birthday.
That hurt.
She sent a photograph wearing blue overalls beside a cake shaped like a tire.
Under it:
YOU OWE PRESENT.
I responded:
What do you want?
Her answer:
Come back.
Nothing I could buy.
Everything I wanted to give.
I attended counseling because the court required it.
At first, I treated therapy like interrogation.
The therapist, Dr. Hammond, eventually said:
“You understand you are allowed to answer questions without calculating strategic advantage.”
“I understand the concept.”
“Do you practice it?”
“No.”
Progress began slowly.
I talked about my father.
Vittorio.
The Moretti organization.
Control.
Then Julian.
Finally Sophie.
“What frightened you most when you learned she existed?” Hammond asked.
“That Vittorio would hurt her.”
“Second answer.”
I stared.
“What?”
“The first answer is protection. What frightened you personally?”
I hated him.
Then:
“That she would know what I was.”
There.
Truth.
A child who thought I was interesting because I couldn't fix a car.
What would she think when she understood everything behind the word Mafia?
“Do you want her admiration?”
“No.”
“Love?”
I hesitated.
“Yes.”
“And if she grows up and judges your past harshly?”
I looked down.
“I hope she does.”
That surprised both of us.
“Why?”
“Because then we actually changed something.”
Eighteen months became twelve.
Then fifteen.
Then seventeen.
My release date arrived on a Thursday.
Mara planned that deliberately.
A corrections officer handed me my property.
Wallet.
Watch.
Ring.
Ten-millimeter socket.
I held it.
Still there.
Outside, a blue pickup waited.
Mara drove.
Sophie sat beside her.
She saw me.
Opened the door.
Ran.
At seven, she was taller.
Missing another tooth.
Hair longer.
Still carrying grease somewhere on her clothing.
“UNCLE ADRIAN!”
She hit me hard enough to push me backward.
I hugged her.
“You got heavy.”
She gasped.
“Rude!”
Mara laughed.
I looked at her.
She looked older.
Not much.
Stronger.
“Welcome home.”
“Thank you.”
Sophie pulled back.
“Socket?”
I reached into my pocket.
Her eyes widened.
“You kept!”
“I was instructed.”
She nodded.
“Did it fix?”
“Partly.”
“Good.”
Then she dragged me toward the truck.
“Come.”
“Where?”
“Garage.”
“Immediately?”
“Yes.”
“I haven't eaten.”
“We have sandwiches.”
Mara smiled.
“You don't get a glamorous return.”
“I didn't expect one.”
We drove.
No black SUV.
No security convoy.
No tinted armored windows.
A blue pickup with a dent near the rear wheel.
Sophie talked nonstop.
School.
Garage.
A dog named Moose that apparently belonged to the neighboring farm but had adopted them against everyone's wishes.
Then we reached Reed Motor & Repair.
The sign had changed.
REED & JULIAN MOTOR WORKS
Below it:
HONEST WORK. FAIR PRICE. NO DRAMA.
I looked at Mara.
“No drama?”
“Advertising doesn't have to be completely accurate.”
Sophie dragged me inside.
A workbench had been cleared.
On it sat an old engine.
She handed me the wrench.
“Lesson one.”
I stared.
“You're teaching me?”
“Yes.”
“I’m forty.”
“So?”
Mara leaned against the doorway.
“You once controlled half the city.”
“Allegedly.”
“Surely you can learn an oil filter.”
I looked at Sophie.
She smiled.
For eighteen months, I had imagined returning to family.
I never realized family might look like a noisy garage smelling of motor oil while a seven-year-old patiently explained basic mechanics to a former crime boss.
It was perfect.
Then Sophie said:
“Uncle Adrian?”
“Yes?”
“Daddy said you needed us?”
My chest tightened.
“Who told you that?”
“Mommy.”
Mara looked embarrassed.
I crouched.
“I think your dad was right.”
Sophie smiled.
“Good.”
She handed me the wrench.
May you like
“Then don't break anything.”
No pressure.
