Chapter 13 - THE MONEY THOMAS LEFT BEHIND
The account held $312,000.
I laughed when the attorney told me.
Not because it was funny.
Because Thomas Bennett could not die normally.
The account was not gambling winnings.
Not stolen money.
Not Moretti’s.
Over three years, my father had been receiving whistleblower-style payments from legitimate businesses that wanted information about predatory collections and fraudulent vendor networks.
Small consulting agreements.
Legal.
Documented.
He hid the money because Moretti monitored him.
Why not use it to pay Varga?
Because once he learned the debt was fabricated and Moretti wanted Chloe regardless of payment, money stopped solving anything.
So he saved.
Most was intended for us.
Will:
Sixty percent Chloe.
Forty percent Sam in trust until twenty-one.
I stared.
My father had died with worn shoes and unpaid utility bills while sitting on hundreds of thousands.
Anger came first.
Then understanding.
If he changed our lifestyle, Moretti noticed.
If he paid Varga, Moretti created another debt.
So Thomas stayed broke publicly.
Then his letter to the attorney:
My daughter will think I failed her. She will be right. Give her the money anyway. It is not an apology. It is the part I managed to save.
I cried.
Then I did something Dad would not expect.
I did not use the money to become rich overnight.
Sam’s trust remained.
My portion paid for school.
Emergency savings.
A modest down payment eventually.
And one thing:
A scholarship at a gambling-addiction family support program.
Anonymous.
Dominic found out anyway.
“How?”
“I know people.”
“You are deeply irritating.”
“Yes.”
Our relationship grew.
Slowly.
Painfully.
No moving into his mansion.
He didn’t have one anyway.
His home was a surprisingly normal waterfront townhouse with aggressive security.
I refused to stay overnight until he removed the camera from the guest hallway.
He argued.
Lost.
We dated for eight months before he kissed me.
Not because he was slow.
Because I was.
One night outside my apartment, he asked:
“Can I?”
I knew what he meant.
“Yes.”
The kiss was gentle.
That shocked me more than violence ever had.
Jared? That's prior story. No Jared here. Ignore.
Dominic never asked me to quit my job.
Never paid my tuition.
He once offered.
I said no.
He said okay.
I almost married him for that alone.
Almost.
Then came Varga.
Lucian returned to Seattle eighteen months after disappearing.
Not with collectors.
Lawyers.
His organization had been damaged badly by investigations.
He wanted a formal end to hostilities with Dominic.
Business boundaries.
No retaliation.
Dominic agreed to meet.
He told me beforehand.
Another change.
Then Varga requested something from me.
An apology meeting.
I refused.
He sent a letter.
I nearly threw it away.
Then read it.
I allowed Moretti to use you because I considered your fear cheaper than conflict with him.
No excuses.
At least accurate.
Then:
Your father caused me problems. In retrospect, he was usually correct.
Dad would have loved that.
I kept that line.
Burned the rest.
Then Dominic returned from the meeting.
“It’s finished.”
“With Varga?”
“For now.”
“For now?”
“This is organized crime, Chloe. Not a Disney movie.”
Fair.
Then he said something else.
“I’m getting out.”
I stared.
“What?”
“Not tomorrow.”
He looked toward Sam’s room.
“But I’m done building this.”
That frightened me almost as much as the mafia itself.
Because leaving meant enemies.
Losses.
People resisting.
“Why?”
Dominic looked at me.
Then corrected himself before giving the easy answer.
“Not because of you.”
Good.
“Because I’m tired of watching every person I care about become leverage.”
There.
May you like
His own reason.
That was the only one I could trust.
