Chapter 14 - THE FRIEND WHO SOLD ISABELLA’S ROUTE
The driver had received ten thousand dollars.
Not to kill Isabella.
To force her car to stop.
Arthur wanted men to search it for evidence.
The driver was supposed to block the road.
Instead, drunk and panicked, he crossed the median too fast.
Collision.
Two deaths.
The payment came from Isabella’s personal assistant.
Claire Monroe.
I remembered her.
Sweet.
Quiet.
At the funeral, she held Rosie for almost an hour.
Why?
Debt.
Arthur discovered Claire owed money.
He offered to erase it if she provided Isabella’s schedule.
Claire believed they were planning a legal confrontation.
She never knew anyone would touch the car.
After Isabella died, guilt destroyed her.
She moved to Oregon.
Changed jobs.
Stopped drinking.
When investigators found her, she confessed immediately.
Another ordinary person turned into a weapon because powerful men knew which pressure point to use.
I did not want revenge.
That surprised me.
I wanted the chain to stop.
Claire testified.
No dramatic confrontation.
No threats.
Just consequence.
Arthur eventually pleaded guilty to conspiracy, fraud, obstruction, and charges linked to Isabella’s death.
Patrick went to trial and lost.
Camille served a reduced sentence after cooperation, followed by mandatory treatment and supervision.
Nobody became innocent because they admitted guilt.
But truth finally had shape.
My own case ended months later.
Heavy fines.
Forfeited assets.
Corporate oversight.
Several businesses dissolved.
Some of my past conduct remained under investigation.
I accepted that.
No miracle pardon.
No convenient erasure.
I stepped down from daily control of Moretti Logistics and installed an independent board.
Jack asked:
“Are we poor now?”
I looked around our four-bedroom townhouse.
“No.”
“How not poor?”
“Your definition of poor is offensive.”
Naomi laughed from the kitchen.
She was visiting.
Not working.
Important distinction.
Our one coffee became several.
Then dinners.
Then months.
Slow.
Awkward.
Good.
She never tolerated commands disguised as requests.
I learned.
One evening, after the children slept, I found her standing beside the fireplace.
“Roman.”
“Yes?”
She looked nervous.
That was rare.
“I want to tell you something.”
I waited.
“I loved Isabella.”
My chest tightened.
“Like family?”
“No.”
I looked at her.
Naomi swallowed.
“Not romantically.”
I exhaled.
She smiled.
“I loved what she did for people. I admired her.”
Then she looked at me.
“When she died, I blamed you.”
“That seems fair.”
“I came into your house expecting to hate you.”
“Also fair.”
“I didn’t expect you to listen.”
“I barely did.”
“At first.”
Silence.
Then Naomi stepped closer.
“I don’t hate you now.”
My heartbeat changed.
“Encouraging.”
She smiled.
Then I asked:
“Can I kiss you?”
Her eyes softened.
“Yes.”
No wall.
No blood.
No arrangement.
I kissed her slowly.
When we separated, Rosie’s sleepy voice came from the stairs.
“Are you getting married?”
Naomi jumped.
I closed my eyes.
“Go to bed.”
Rosie grinned.
“That means yes.”
“It absolutely does not.”
She ran upstairs laughing.
Naomi looked at me.
“Your daughter is terrifying.”
“She gets it from Isabella.”
Naomi smiled.
May you like
Then she said:
“Good.”
