Chapter 2 - THE GIRL WITH MY EYES
Elena did not lie.
I will always respect her for that.
She didn’t tell Sofia too much.
She didn’t tell her everything.
She simply said:
“He might be.”
Sofia considered this.
Six-year-olds can sometimes process earthquakes more calmly than adults.
“Oh.”
That was all.
Then:
“Can I have pudding?”
I nearly laughed.
Elena did.
Weakly.
For the next twenty-four hours, I learned two things.
First:
Elena had lymphoma.
Treatable.
Potentially curable.
But she had delayed part of her treatment because her insurance situation collapsed after she lost her bookkeeping job.
Second:
Sofia had been taking public transportation with an elderly neighbor to pick up prescriptions until the neighbor became sick.
That day in Manhattan, Sofia had gone with a woman from their building who became distracted after meeting someone near the pharmacy.
The child wandered only two blocks.
Two blocks were enough to find me dying.
I paid nothing without Elena’s permission.
That mattered.
The old Roman would have solved everything by transferring money.
Apartment.
Doctors.
Private nurses.
Security.
Done.
Elena looked at me and said:
“If you start buying control, I’ll disappear again.”
So I asked.
“What can I do?”
That surprised both of us.
She allowed me to cover Sofia’s meals while she remained hospitalized.
Nothing else.
Fine.
The next morning, Marco brought pancakes.
Sofia stared at him.
“Are you a police officer?”
Marco looked offended.
“No.”
“You dress like one.”
“I dress well.”
“You dress black.”
I covered a smile.
Marco looked at me.
“Your kid?”
Sofia’s head snapped up.
Elena closed her eyes.
“Marco.”
He realized.
“Oh.”
I had never seen Marco Bianchi lose words.
Sofia ate pancakes.
Then asked:
“Do you know my maybe-dad?”
Marco looked at me.
“Unfortunately.”
She smiled.
I liked her immediately.
That terrified me too.
A DNA test was arranged.
Not because I doubted Elena.
Because legal truth mattered.
Three days later, the result came.
Probability of paternity:
99.99%.
I stared at the page until the numbers blurred.
Marco stood beside me.
“Congratulations.”
I looked at him.
“I missed six years.”
“That isn’t the same as choosing to miss them.”
“It feels the same.”
“No.”
Marco rarely contradicted me.
“It shouldn’t.”
That afternoon, I entered Elena’s room.
Sofia was drawing.
I held the paper.
Elena knew.
She looked away.
I crouched beside Sofia.
She stopped coloring.
“Remember when your mom said I might be your father?”
“Yes.”
“I am.”
She stared.
“Really?”
“Yes.”
She looked at Elena.
Elena nodded.
Then Sofia looked back at me.
“Do I have to call you Dad?”
My throat tightened.
“No.”
“What should I call you?”
“Roman is fine.”
She considered.
“Okay, Roman.”
I almost laughed.
Then she resumed coloring.
A minute later:
“Do you have kids?”
I stared.
Marco made a choking sound from the doorway.
“You,” I said, “are my kid.”
“Oh.”
Pause.
“Only me?”
“Yes.”
She smiled.
“Cool.”
Elena watched me carefully.
I understood.
She wasn’t testing whether I loved Sofia.
She was testing whether love from a Moretti came with ownership.
I had to prove it didn’t.
That evening, while Sofia slept in the reclining chair, Elena told me about the seven missing years.
She changed apartments four times.
Used her mother’s surname.
Worked cash jobs when necessary.
Never applied for support.
Never contacted anyone connected to the Morettis.
“Why Queens?”
“My aunt lived there.”
“She knew?”
“She knew I was hiding.”
“From me?”
“From your family.”
That distinction mattered.
Then I asked:
“Where is the proof you found?”
Elena’s face changed.
“You still have it.”
“You kept evidence for seven years?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“I’m not telling you.”
I almost smiled.
“There she is.”
“What?”
“The Elena I remember.”
She rolled her eyes.
Then became serious.
“I need to know what you became.”
The question hit harder than insult.
“You know what people say.”
“I asked you.”
So I answered.
After my father’s death, I took control.
I did things I was not proud of.
Allowed other things because I believed stability mattered more than morality.
But over the previous five years, I had been moving the organization toward legitimate businesses.
Shipping.
Construction.
Restaurants.
Security.
Real estate.
Some men hated me for it.
Dominic publicly supported me.
Now I understood why.
Legitimate companies gave him clean places to hide stolen money.
Elena listened.
“Have you killed people?”
Silence.
Not a romantic question.
Not one I could answer with charming ambiguity.
“Yes.”
She looked away.
“People who were trying to kill me.”
“That doesn’t make it clean.”
“No.”
Her eyes returned.
“Do you want Sofia raised around that?”
“No.”
The answer came immediately.
That surprised me.
Maybe that was the moment something truly changed.
I didn’t want my daughter inheriting fear just because I had.
Then Elena said:
“Dominic will find out.”
“Yes.”
“What will you do?”
Old instinct answered first.
Destroy him.
I did not say it.
Instead:
“Prove it.”
She studied my face.
“With what?”
“Records.”
“Police?”
“If necessary.”
Her eyebrows rose.
“You would turn family evidence over?”
“If he threatened my child and stole from our employees?”
I looked toward Sofia.
“Yes.”
Elena stared for a long time.
Then said:
“Maybe you did change.”
Not forgiveness.
Not trust.
A possibility.
It felt enormous.
That night, Dominic called.
I answered.
“Roman.”
“Uncle.”
“I hear you’ve been spending time in Queens.”
My blood went cold.
Too fast.
He knew.
I looked through the hospital glass at Sofia sleeping.
“Who told you?”
Dominic laughed.
“You think Manhattan has secrets?”
I said nothing.
Then:
“Be careful with old ghosts, nephew.”
My jaw tightened.
“Elena isn’t a ghost.”
Silence.
Tiny.
But there.
He had not expected me to say her name.
Then he recovered.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Of course.”
I hung up.
Marco looked at me.
“He knows.”
“Yes.”
“What now?”
I stared through the glass.
May you like
“Now we find out how much of my life my uncle stole.”
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