Chapter 14 - THE LOVE THAT CAME AFTER GRIEF
Our first date was awkward.
Painfully awkward.
Dominic arrived at a little Italian restaurant wearing a suit that probably cost more than my tuition.
I wore a blue dress I'd bought on sale.
He looked around the room as though he expected someone to announce his arrival.
Nobody did.
I smiled.
"You're disappointed."
He frowned.
"About what?"
"Nobody's afraid of you here."
He laughed softly.
"I think that's a good thing."
We ordered pasta.
Talked about books.
Our childhoods.
Travel.
Food.
Everything except the Moretti business.
At first, Dominic struggled.
He was accustomed to conversations that involved negotiations, security, or family responsibilities.
Ordinary questions seemed to confuse him.
"What do you do for fun?" I asked.
He stared.
"Fun?"
I laughed.
"Yes. Fun."
He considered it.
"Benjamin."
"That's parenting."
He smiled.
"Fair."
"Try again."
He looked embarrassed.
"I used to paint."
I stared.
"You?"
"Watercolors."
I nearly dropped my fork.
"Dominic Moretti paints watercolors?"
"Apparently that surprises people."
"It surprises me."
He laughed.
"Isabella liked painting. She encouraged me to try."
His smile faded slightly.
I looked at him.
"You can talk about her."
He seemed startled.
"Are you sure?"
"Of course."
I took a breath.
"She was an important part of your life. She's Benjamin's mother. I wouldn't want you to pretend otherwise."
Dominic's eyes filled.
For years, people around him had avoided Isabella's name.
As though grief were contagious.
As though remembering her prevented anyone from moving forward.
But I didn't see love as a competition with the dead.
Isabella had been kind to me.
She had trusted me with Benjamin.
And I knew that whatever happened between Dominic and me, her place in the family would remain.
Dominic looked down.
"Thank you."
I smiled.
"Tell me about her."
He did.
For almost an hour.
He told me Isabella loved terrible jokes.
Hated mushrooms.
Collected old sheet music.
And once convinced him to attend a pottery class where he accidentally destroyed three bowls.
I laughed until tears filled my eyes.
He smiled.
For the first time, I saw the younger man Isabella had loved.
Not the feared mafia boss.
Not the wealthy businessman.
Just Dominic.
As our relationship developed, we moved carefully.
I continued my studies.
Maintained my own apartment.
Spent time with friends.
And made sure Benjamin's emotional wellbeing remained separate from our romantic choices.
We consulted Dr. Mercer about how and when to discuss the relationship with him.
No secrets.
No sudden declarations.
No pressure for Benjamin to call me anything other than Claire.
When we eventually told him we were dating, he considered the news seriously.
Then asked, "Does that mean Miss Claire will still come to my science fairs?"
I smiled.
"Of course."
He looked at Dominic.
"And can she still tell you when you're wrong?"
Dominic laughed.
"She does that regularly."
Benjamin grinned.
"Good."
I laughed.
Then he asked something that made my heart ache.
"Will Mommy be sad?"
Dominic went still.
I knelt beside Benjamin.
"Your mommy will always be your mommy."
His eyes filled.
I continued.
"Nobody can take her place."
Benjamin looked at me.
"Even if you and Daddy get married someday?"
I swallowed.
"Even then."
He thought for a moment.
Then smiled.
"Okay."
And just like that, a nine-year-old boy reminded us that children didn't need adults to erase the past.
They needed adults to tell the truth about it.
Months passed.
Dominic continued reforming his businesses.
He cooperated with financial investigators, withdrew from criminal activities, and accepted that rebuilding a legitimate life required more than public statements.
Some former associates abandoned him.
Others criticized him.
His financial empire became smaller.
But his home became warmer.
He attended school meetings.
Learned to cook more than pancakes.
Helped Benjamin practice piano.
And began painting again.
One afternoon, I found him sitting in the garden with a watercolor set.
He was painting the lake.
Badly.
I stood behind him.
"Interesting interpretation."
He looked up.
"What?"
"The water is purple."
He sighed.
"It's artistic."
I laughed.
He smiled.
Then held out the brush.
"Want to help?"
I sat beside him.
We painted until sunset.
Our hands became stained with blue and green.
And somewhere between the laughter and the terrible artwork, I realized something.
I loved him.
Not the powerful man who commanded rooms.
Not the wealthy employer who once frightened his staff.
But the man who was learning how to be gentle.
I looked at him.
"Dominic?"
"Yes?"
"I love you."
He stopped painting.
The brush hovered above the paper.
Then he turned.
"Claire?"
My cheeks flushed.
"I wasn't planning to say it like that."
He smiled slowly.
"How were you planning to say it?"
"I don't know."
He put down the brush.
Then took my hand.
"I love you too."
My eyes filled.
He continued.
"But I don't want you to feel trapped by those words."
I shook my head.
"I don't."
He smiled.
"Good."
Then he kissed me.
And for the first time, love didn't feel like something complicated by power, grief, or obligation.
It felt like two people choosing each other.
May you like
Freely.
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