Chapter 13 - THE MAFIA BOSS BECAME THE SCHOOL DAD
Freedom smelled like rain.
Not dramatic.
Just wet pavement outside a federal facility in Wisconsin.
Norah waited beside Rebecca.
Ten years old.
Taller.
Hair longer.
Bear tucked under one arm.
I had missed two birthdays in person.
One school play.
Three lost teeth.
I hated every item on that list.
Then Norah saw me.
“Dad!”
She ran.
I barely had time to drop my bag.
She hit me at full speed.
I lifted her.
“You’re heavy.”
“Rude.”
I laughed.
God, I had missed her.
She looked at me.
“You look old.”
“Prison is very relaxing.”
Rebecca rolled her eyes.
We drove home.
Not the Chicago estate.
That property was gone.
Good.
Rebecca had helped me rent a modest house outside Madison.
Three bedrooms.
Small yard.
No gates.
No guards.
Norah chose the room with blue walls.
I took the one beside it.
My first morning home, she woke me at 6:20.
“Dad.”
“What?”
“I need lunch.”
I opened one eye.
“What happened to school cafeteria food?”
“You said you wanted to be a real dad.”
Apparently accountability began with sandwiches.
I made peanut butter and jelly.
Poorly.
Norah inspected it.
“You forgot to cut it.”
“I survived organized crime and prison.”
“Triangles.”
I cut triangles.
The aviation-security job started three weeks later.
My new boss did not fear me.
She corrected me in meetings.
It was refreshing and annoying.
I traveled rarely.
Never without telling Norah exactly where.
Then one afternoon, her school called.
Fight.
I arrived expecting my daughter had hit someone.
Instead, a boy had told the class her father was a murderer.
Norah pushed him.
The principal looked uncomfortable.
I sat beside her.
“Did you push him?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“He said you’re evil.”
“What did you say?”
“I said you’re not.”
I looked at her.
“Norah.”
Her eyes filled.
“Are you?”
Hard question.
Necessary answer.
“I did things that hurt people.”
“You told me.”
“Yes.”
“Then why did he say murderer?”
“Because some people know pieces of my past.”
“Did you kill people?”
The principal stopped breathing.
I could have delayed the conversation.
Not here.
Not now.
But secrecy was where all my worst decisions began.
“Yes.”
Norah stared.
My heart broke.
“Before you?”
“Yes.”
“After me?”
I hesitated.
She noticed.
“Yes.”
Tears filled her eyes.
“Why?”
“Because I was wrong about what protecting people meant.”
She stood.
“I want Aunt Rebecca.”
Fair.
She left.
I sat alone.
I had survived a failing airplane.
Patrick.
Prison.
Meridian.
Nothing prepared me for my daughter walking away.
She did not speak to me that evening.
Or the next morning.
Then I found a note outside my bedroom.
I’M STILL MAD.
Underneath:
BUT YOU CAN MAKE PANCAKES.
It was not forgiveness.
It was a door.
I made pancakes.
Burned the first batch.
Months passed.
Norah asked questions when she was ready.
I answered them.
Not graphic details.
Truth appropriate for her age.
Then, one year after my release, I received a call.
Jillian.
“Haven’t heard your voice in a while.”
“Everything okay?”
“Yes.”
A pause.
“Aaron and I are organizing something.”
“What?”
“Flight 218 reunion.”
I laughed.
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because reunions are terrible.”
“Norah already said yes.”
I turned.
My daughter stood in the kitchen smiling.
“You called my child?”
“She called me.”
Traitor.
The reunion would be in Chicago.
The city I had avoided since release.
Norah looked at me.
“You scared?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
She used my own line.
Then Jillian added:
“One more thing.”
“What?”
“Douglas Martinez will be there.”
I frowned.
“The real one?”
“Yes.”
The tech CEO whose identity Voss stole had survived.
Apparently, he never boarded Flight 218 because somebody drugged him in an airport restroom and stole his credentials.
He had spent years trying to find out why.
And according to Jillian:
May you like
“He has information about Meridian that nobody else knows.”
The old network might not be finished after all.
