Chapter 12 - THE MAN WITHOUT AN EMPIRE
Matteo Rossi became strangely boring.
For the first time in his adult life, nobody called him at midnight about shipments.
Nobody asked permission to punish anyone.
Nobody brought envelopes of cash.
He attended federal interviews.
Therapy.
Anger-management sessions his attorney recommended.
Parenting classes nobody required.
Norah found out about that one accidentally.
“You’re taking a newborn-care class?”
“Yes.”
“You once threatened a governor.”
“Babies seem harder.”
She laughed.
Their relationship changed in inches.
He drove her to appointments when invited.
Sat in the waiting room when not.
Brought food.
Not diamonds.
Not jewelry.
Food.
He learned she hated cucumber during pregnancy.
Loved lemon ice.
Could not sleep unless the bedroom window was cracked.
Things he should have known before.
One evening Norah said:
“You’re different.”
Matteo looked at her.
“I’m trying.”
“Trying because you want me back?”
“At first.”
“And now?”
“Because I don’t like the man I was.”
That answer mattered.
At thirty-six weeks, Norah’s blood pressure rose.
Doctors ordered rest.
Matteo moved into the guest room only because she asked.
No assumptions.
No marital bed.
No touching unless invited.
One night he heard her crying.
He stood outside the bedroom.
Did not enter.
“Norah?”
Silence.
Then:
“Come in.”
She sat on the bed holding their wedding photo.
“I hate that I still love you.”
Matteo sat on the floor.
Far enough away.
“I hate that I gave you reasons not to.”
“I don’t know if love is enough.”
“It isn’t.”
She looked at him.
That answer surprised her.
“Then what is?”
“Trust.”
“And we don’t have that.”
“No.”
He swallowed.
“But maybe someday.”
She began crying harder.
Matteo did not move until she held out her hand.
Then he crossed the room.
No kiss.
No grand gesture.
He just held her.
At 3:14 a.m., her water broke.
Matteo panicked so thoroughly that Norah started laughing between contractions.
“You run an empire.”
“Not anymore.”
“You’ve been shot.”
“Yes.”
“You look terrified.”
“I am.”
Their daughter arrived eight hours later.
Six pounds, eleven ounces.
Dark hair.
Furious lungs.
Perfect.
Norah named her Clara Vale Rossi.
Vale for Thomas.
Matteo cried when the nurse placed Clara in his arms.
He did not hide it.
He looked at Norah.
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“Letting me be here.”
Then the nurse returned carrying an envelope left at reception.
No sender.
Inside was a photograph of newborn Clara taken less than ten minutes earlier.
May you like
On the back:
MARCO WASN’T THE LAST ONE.
