Chapter 9 - I QUIT THE MORETTI HOUSE
My sister’s surgery happened Monday morning.
On schedule.
I paid the clinic from the savings I already had.
No Moretti money.
No mysterious donation.
No debt bought by a billionaire.
Mine.
When she came out groggy and miserable, she looked at me and mumbled:
“Did you get fired?”
I laughed.
“Sort of.”
“Good.”
Then fell asleep.
Twenty-five-year-old wisdom.
Two days later, I returned to the mansion.
Not in uniform.
Jeans.
Sweater.
My own coat.
Luca met me in the foyer.
“You came back.”
“To see your mother.”
He nodded.
No disappointment displayed.
Good.
Teresa was in the sunroom.
When she saw me, her whole face changed.
Her hands moved quickly.
You look different.
“No apron.”
She smiled.
Then:
Good.
I sat beside her.
“I resigned.”
She frowned.
Because me?
“No.”
I looked toward Luca.
“Because I don’t want my paycheck controlled by someone whose family I may need to testify against.”
Luca accepted that without flinching.
“Fair.”
Then he handed me an envelope.
I stared.
“What is that?”
“Final wages. Overtime Vanessa never approved. Nothing else.”
I checked.
Exactly.
No bonus.
No hidden rescue.
I accepted it.
Work deserved wages.
Then he said:
“I owe you an apology.”
“You owe your mother several.”
“I’m working through the list.”
Good.
He did not ask for friendship.
Did not ask me to stay.
He only said:
“If you ever need documentation for another job, the household administrator has been instructed to provide an accurate reference.”
“Thank you.”
Then Teresa asked for my attention.
Patricia.
I nodded.
Her late sister.
She signed:
Couldn’t speak in hospitals.
People talked to me instead.
I understood.
Patricia had been deaf from childhood.
Doctors often communicated through Teresa rather than directly with Patricia.
Even when Patricia was the patient.
Teresa never forgot how much her sister hated it.
Then she signed:
Help other people.
I hesitated.
“How?”
She pointed toward a folder.
Inside was an old charitable account created by Patricia before her death.
Small by Moretti standards.
$3.2 million.
Its stated purpose:
Communication access for deaf, speech-impaired, and neurologically impaired adults.
It had been inactive for years.
Teresa wanted to reactivate it.
She wanted me involved.
I immediately shook my head.
“I’m not qualified to run a foundation.”
She signed:
Learn.
Luca almost smiled.
I looked at him.
“No family control.”
His expression became serious.
“Agreed.”
“Independent board.”
“Yes.”
“Independent audit.”
“Yes.”
“You don’t appoint me.”
“Then who does?”
“A board.”
He nodded.
“Agreed.”
That was how the Patricia Moretti Communication Access Fund began rebuilding.
Not as my reward.
Not Luca’s redemption.
As Teresa’s decision.
I applied months later for a paid program coordinator position after completing certification coursework in medical and legal interpreting.
The board interviewed six candidates.
They hired someone else.
I was furious.
Then realized that was exactly what independence looked like.
Six months later, I applied for another role.
This time, I got it.
On merit.
The same week, Luca received his federal plea offer.
Eighteen months in custody.
For financial crimes and coercive practices he had admitted himself.
He accepted.
No bargaining for zero time.
And before sentencing, Teresa made one request.
She wanted to address the court.
May you like
Not through me.
Through a certified independent interpreter.
