Chapter 9 - THE HOUSE WITH NO LOCKED DOORS
Twenty months taught me that time becomes physical when you cannot command it.
You cannot negotiate Tuesday.
You cannot threaten winter.
You cannot buy Sunday evening.
I wrote Jack and Rosie every week.
Not assistants.
Me.
Jack wrote back inconsistently.
Mostly drawings.
Trucks returned.
That felt important.
Rosie sent stickers.
Entire pages.
One letter contained twelve unicorn stickers and the sentence:
I am not difficult today but Naomi says I can be difficult tomorrow.
I laughed for five minutes.
Naomi visited once every two months with the children.
Never alone.
We did not create a romance out of crisis.
That mattered.
I had watched powerful men turn gratitude into ownership.
I refused.
When I came home, the penthouse had been sold.
My decision.
Too many memories.
Too much glass.
Too many places where children had learned fear.
We moved into a renovated brick house in Lincoln Park.
Still expensive.
I had limits.
But smaller.
Warmer.
The first thing Rosie noticed:
“No elevator.”
“Yes.”
“Terrible.”
Jack noticed something else.
“The bedroom doors don’t lock.”
Correct.
Inside locks had been removed temporarily on Dr. Walsh’s recommendation.
Privacy remained.
Isolation did not.
Jack chose the room facing the yard.
Rosie chose one with a window seat.
I took the smallest bedroom.
Nico called it character development.
Romano Continental was now fully legitimate.
Revenue dropped thirty-one percent.
Profit dropped more.
I had never been prouder.
Adrian Park—a former compliance executive unrelated to Agent Park—became CEO.
I stayed as minority chairman with restricted operational authority.
Jack called that “being fake boss.”
Accurate.
Camille pleaded guilty.
Seven years.
Patrick received twenty-three.
Arthur got eleven after cooperation reduced potential exposure.
Elias Grant received twelve.
The old system did not end dramatically.
Paperwork killed it.
Audits.
Forfeitures.
Indictments.
Bank restrictions.
I developed enormous respect for accountants.
Naomi started something new.
The Wells Center for Child Advocacy.
I offered to fund all of it.
She refused.
“Why?”
“Because then it becomes yours.”
“I’m giving you money.”
“That is how your brain works.”
“What do you want?”
“Matching funds.”
I stared.
“You want me to donate only if other people do?”
“Yes.”
“That seems inefficient.”
“It creates community ownership.”
“I hate nonprofit language.”
“You’ll survive.”
The center opened nine months after my release.
Counseling.
Legal advocacy.
Emergency placement assistance.
Programs for children experiencing coercive control.
Jack helped choose the logo.
Rosie chose the snacks.
She considered that more important.
One evening after closing, Naomi and I sat on the center steps.
“You’re different,” she said.
“Older.”
“That too.”
“Less attractive?”
“Debatable.”
I looked at her.
She smiled.
For months, something quiet had grown between us.
Not during the abuse.
Not during the investigation.
Not while I was imprisoned.
After.
When there were no emergencies forcing proximity.
Coffee.
Conversations.
Arguments about parenting.
A terrible Cubs game.
One dinner where nobody was arrested.
Progress.
“I want to take you out,” I said.
“We’re sitting outside.”
“Dinner.”
“We eat dinner all the time.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Yes.”
She looked forward.
“Ask properly.”
I sighed.
“Naomi Wells, would you allow me the extraordinary privilege—”
“Stop.”
“You said properly.”
“Not like a Victorian criminal.”
I laughed.
“Dinner Saturday?”
“Yes.”
“Really?”
“Don’t make me reconsider.”
I didn’t.
Our first date was boring.
Beautifully boring.
Italian restaurant.
No security incident.
No blackmail.
No guns.
We discussed books.
Schools.
Whether pineapple belonged on pizza.
Naomi believed yes.
Nobody is perfect.
When I returned home, Jack sat on the stairs.
“You went on a date.”
“Go to bed.”
“With Naomi.”
“Bed.”
“Did you kiss?”
“Jack.”
He grinned.
For the first time, my son teased me like an ordinary eight—now ten—year-old.
May you like
I considered that a victory.
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