Chapter 6 - THE WOMAN I CALLED A MAID
Elena resigned the week after Carlo’s arrest.
I stared at the letter.
“No.”
She raised an eyebrow.
I heard myself.
Then:
“I mean… why?”
Better.
“I was never supposed to stay permanently.”
“You have somewhere to go?”
“Yes.”
“Money?”
Her eyes narrowed.
“Alessio.”
“Right.”
Not my business.
I was improving slowly.
Elena had returned to nursing certification months earlier through online courses.
She wanted a hospital position.
Pediatric rehabilitation.
Of course.
“What about Mateo?”
“That is between Mateo and me.”
Right again.
“And Leo?”
“Still my son.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
That hurt.
She softened.
“I'm sorry.”
“No.”
I sat.
“You're right.”
The first week after discovering Leo, I had spent too much time looking at him as proof of Mateo.
The crescent birthmark.
The eyes.
The curls.
I needed to remember Leo was not a replacement child.
Not evidence.
Not a second chance at the years I lost.
He belonged first to himself.
Then to his parents.
Grandfather came later.
“If you need anything—”
She smiled.
“There it is.”
“What?”
“The Moretti solution.”
“Money?”
“Money.”
“Security.”
“Property.”
“Fixing.”
I leaned back.
“Annoying habit.”
“Yes.”
“What am I allowed to offer?”
“Dinner.”
“Occasional babysitting.”
I blinked.
“You trust me with a baby?”
“Under supervision at first.”
Cruel.
Fair.
She continued:
“Respect.”
“That one is free.”
“Good.”
Then she placed something on my desk.
Her old staff key.
I looked at it.
“You don't have to give this back today.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Why?”
“Because when I come back next time, I don't want to enter as your employee.”
I understood.
The following Saturday, Mateo, Elena and Leo came for dinner.
Not staff dinner.
Family.
Strange.
Mateo refused my dining room because it “felt like a board meeting.”
We ate in the kitchen.
Pasta.
Leo threw peas.
Elena blamed Moretti genetics.
I objected.
Mateo pointed out I once threw a plate at my father when I was nineteen.
History was unfair.
After dinner, Mateo asked to speak privately.
We walked outside.
He used a cane on difficult days.
The crash left permanent damage in his right hip and lower back.
I had imagined finding him meant everything restored.
No.
He carried scars.
Pain.
Three missing years.
Trauma.
Alive did not mean untouched.
“What do you want to do?”
I asked.
He knew what I meant.
Moretti Holdings.
Succession.
His old future.
“I don't want it.”
My stomach tightened.
“Any of it?”
“I don't know.”
“Maybe legitimate logistics.”
“Maybe the hotel side.”
“But I'm not running the organization you built.”
I wanted to argue.
Then remembered Sofia’s letter.
You do not inherit your father’s enemies unless you choose to.
“Okay.”
Mateo stared.
“That easy?”
“No.”
I smiled slightly.
“But okay.”
He leaned against the railing.
“Do you know how long I rehearsed that?”
“How long?”
“Three years.”
That hurt.
Then:
“I want to marry Elena.”
I looked at him.
“Does she know?”
“No.”
“Then why are you telling me?”
“I'm not asking permission.”
Good.
“I wanted you to know before I ask.”
“Why?”
“Because despite everything…”
He looked embarrassed.
“…you're my father.”
Simple.
Enough.
“Do you have a ring?”
“Yes.”
“Good one?”
He rolled his eyes.
“Don't become yourself.”
I laughed.
Then became serious.
“Mateo.”
“What?”
“Thank you for coming home.”
His eyes filled.
“I’m still deciding what home means.”
Another correction.
I accepted it.
Months later, he proposed.
Elena said yes.
They did not marry at my estate.
Good.
Small ceremony beside Lake Michigan.
Leo was one year old and tried to eat flower petals.
I sat in the front row.
Bellini attended in the back.
That surprised me.
Mateo invited him.
Not because everything was forgiven.
Because the doctor had saved his life.
Complicated gratitude.
After the ceremony, I approached Bellini.
He stiffened.
“I still don't forgive you.”
“I know.”
“You took three years.”
“Yes.”
“You also gave me every year after.”
His eyes filled.
“Yes.”
I held out my hand.
Not absolution.
A beginning.
He shook it.
Across the lawn, Leo laughed in Elena’s arms.
Mateo stood beside them.
Sofia should have been there.
That pain remained.
But I had learned something from people who survived worse than one feeling at a time.
May you like
Grief and happiness were not enemies.
They could occupy the same photograph.
