Chapter 9 - Victor's Last Letter
Victor died in federal prison at eighty-six.
Roman was seventy-five.
The notification came through an attorney.
With it:
A letter.
Roman almost threw it away.
Elena asked:
“Do you want to read it?”
“No.”
“Then don't.”
He carried it unopened for three months.
Finally:
“Yes.”
They sat on the porch.
Roman opened it.
Victor's handwriting remained strong.
Roman,
If you are reading this, I assume I am dead and you have survived long enough to convince yourself you won.
Roman laughed once.
“Still charming.”
He continued.
Victor defended nothing directly.
More dangerous.
He reframed.
He said Giovanni was weak.
Carlo Moretti had been ambitious.
Nico unlucky.
Adrian foolish.
Roman ungrateful.
Victor claimed everything he did preserved order.
Then:
You dismantled a machine because you were ashamed to use it. Men weaker than you now make decisions through committees and courts. Tell me honestly which world is safer.
Roman stopped.
Elena asked:
“Does it bother you?”
“Yes.”
“Because he's right?”
“No.”
Roman folded the page.
“Because part of me used to believe that.”
He kept reading.
Victor's final paragraph:
I loved you like a son. That was my one mistake.
Roman stared.
For years, he had wanted to understand whether Victor loved him.
Now he realized the question didn't matter as much as he once thought.
Victor may have loved him.
And manipulated him.
Protected him.
And used him.
Love did not automatically purify behavior.
Roman said:
“He still thinks love excuses ownership.”
Elena nodded.
Roman tore the letter once.
Then stopped.
“No.”
“What?”
“I won't destroy it.”
“Why?”
“Because I'm not afraid of what he wrote.”
He placed it in an archive with legal records.
Not framed.
Not treasured.
Contextualized.
Weeks later, Lucia visited.
Roman told her.
“What did Victor say?”
“That he loved me.”
Lucia looked at him.
“Did he?”
“Probably.”
She nodded.
“And?”
Roman smiled.
“My daughter has become annoyingly wise.”
“Occupational hazard.”
He looked toward the yard where grandchildren played.
“When I was young, I thought if someone loved you, you owed them loyalty.”
Lucia waited.
“Then I thought if someone betrayed you, everything good about them became fake.”
“And now?”
Roman watched Elena bring lemonade outside.
“Now I think people can love badly.”
Lucia nodded.
“And people can refuse badly offered love without denying it existed.”
Roman looked at her.
“Write that down.”
“I'm billing you.”
Years passed.
Roman's health eventually declined.
Heart disease.
Of course.
Elena joked the Duca men had finally found an enemy they couldn't intimidate.
Roman spent less time traveling.
More time cooking badly.
He made sauce.
Elena insulted it.
Marriage remained healthy.
At eighty-one, Roman woke one night from a nightmare.
Ballroom.
Gunshot.
Blood on Elena's hands.
He reached across the bed.
Empty.
Panic.
Then Elena came from the bathroom.
“What?”
He exhaled.
“Nothing.”
She stared.
“Roman.”
“Nightmare.”
She climbed back into bed.
“Victor?”
“No.”
“What?”
“You.”
She softened.
“I was covered in blood.”
“Adrian's?”
“Yes.”
Roman touched her hand.
“Still scares me.”
“That I killed someone?”
“No.”
“That I could have lost you before I understood what you were to me.”
Elena smiled.
“What was I?”
Roman stared.
“You're really asking after fifty years?”
“I enjoy compliments.”
He kissed her hand.
“My choice.”
That answer surprised her.
He continued.
“The first person I loved without wanting to own the outcome.”
Elena's eyes filled.
“That's almost romantic.”
“Almost?”
“You still snore.”
May you like
He smiled.
Then slept.
