Chapter 10 - The Letter on the Desk
I sat in my father's study at the Lake Forest estate, illuminated only by the warm amber glow of the fireplace hearth.
The house was quiet now. The nursery upstairs had been cleared out entirely—not converted into a tutor's office for another woman's child, but restored into a beautiful, quiet library filled with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, soft leather armchairs, and fresh white roses.
I placed Enzo’s letter on the polished desk, right next to a framed photograph of my father.
I opened the envelope.
Inside was a single sheet of stationery.
Carmela,
I know these words mean nothing to a woman who has lost everything because of my stupidity. I know no apology will ever mend the cold horror of that night on Archer Avenue.
I am leaving because my presence in Chicago is a insult to your memory and our child’s peace.
I spent my whole life thinking that strength meant holding power, wielding weapons, and making men fear my name. But watching you stand behind that desk, stripped of your child and your joy, yet refusing to break... I finally understood what real strength looks like.
You were the best thing that ever happened to the Moretti name. And I was too small a man to deserve you.
The money from my family's remaining estate will fund the neonatal care unit at Central City Hospital every year on October 14th—the day our son should have been born.
You don't need to forgive me. I will spend the rest of my life ensuring I never forgive myself.
Goodbye, my Don.
Enzo.
I folded the letter carefully, set it down on the wood, and picked up a brass lighter.
May you like
I touched the flame to the edge of the paper.
The white stationary caught fire quickly, curling into black, glowing ash that floated gently into the stone fireplace hearth until there was nothing left of Enzo Moretti’s words.
