Chapter 10 - THE QUIET MORNING IN THE SUBURBS
Six months passed, bringing a quiet rhythm to my life that felt both foreign and wonderful.
The media frenzy surrounding my father’s arrest and the Moretti syndicate’s collapse had finally faded from the front pages. Richard Mitchell was sitting in a federal penitentiary, awaiting trial with a mountain of irrefutable evidence against him. Vincent Moretti was in solitary confinement.
I was sitting at the kitchen island of Eleanor’s house—my house, now. After the dust settled, I had moved in permanently, expanding the small white house to accommodate both of us comfortably.
I took a sip of my morning coffee, reviewing the latest blueprints for a sustainable water purification system my engineering firm was developing.
“You’re frowning, Sarah,” Eleanor noted, shuffling into the kitchen in her pink slippers, holding a watering can. “You only frown at blueprints when the math isn't mathing.”
I laughed, looking up at the eighty-year-old woman who had saved my life. “The math is fine, Eleanor. I’m just trying to figure out how to optimize the flow rate without increasing the manufacturing cost.”
Eleanor set the watering can down and peered over my shoulder at the complex schematics.
“Arthur always said, ‘When the flow fights you, widen the perspective, not the pipe,’” Eleanor murmured softly.
I smiled, feeling a familiar warmth. Arthur’s legacy wasn't just in the stolen valve; it was in the wisdom Eleanor passed down to me.
“I’ll try adjusting the intake valve angle,” I said, making a quick note on the tablet.
The doorbell rang.
I walked to the front door and opened it.
Standing on the porch, looking slightly nervous in a crisp button-down shirt and slacks, was Tyler.
“Hey,” Tyler said, holding up a white paper bag that smelled heavenly. “I brought donuts. The good ones from the bakery on 5th Street.”
“You’re bribing your boss on a Saturday?” I teased, stepping aside to let him in.
“Absolutely,” Tyler grinned, walking into the kitchen and setting the bag on the island. “Good morning, Mrs. Whitaker.”
“Good morning, Tyler,” Eleanor smiled, taking a donut. “I see your physical therapy is going well. You’re walking without the cane today.”
“Yeah, the chest wound is mostly scar tissue now,” Tyler said, rubbing his shoulder subconsciously.
Tyler had changed drastically over the last six months. Working in the logistics department of my firm, he had proven to be incredibly organized and hardworking. The entitlement was gone, replaced by a quiet, determined humility. He was attending Gamblers Anonymous meetings twice a week and slowly rebuilding his life.
“So, why the donuts, Tyler?” I asked, leaning against the counter. “You don't usually come by on weekends unless there’s a crisis at the warehouse.”
Tyler took a deep breath, suddenly looking serious.
“I got a letter from Dad yesterday,” Tyler said quietly.
The air in the kitchen grew instantly heavy. I hadn't spoken to Richard since the night at the pier.
“He wants to see us,” Tyler continued, pulling a folded piece of prison-issued paper from his pocket. “He’s pleading guilty to all charges on Monday to avoid the death penalty. He wants to talk to us before the sentencing.”
I stared at the folded paper. A cold knot formed in my stomach.
“I’m not going,” I said flatly. “I have nothing to say to him.”
“Sarah, please,” Tyler urged gently. “He specifically asked for you. He says he wants to make amends.”
“Amends?” I scoffed, crossing my arms. “He threw me away. He murdered an innocent man. He almost blew up half the city to cover it up. There are no amends for that.”
Tyler looked down at his shoes. “I know. But… he’s still our dad. And he said he has information about the company accounts. Things that could help Mom.”
I closed my eyes, frustrated. My mother was working as a receptionist at a dentist’s office, living in a tiny apartment, struggling to make ends meet. I helped her out anonymously by paying her rent through a proxy, but I kept my emotional distance.
“I’m not going, Tyler,” I repeated firmly.
“Okay,” Tyler sighed, putting the letter away. “I’ll go alone.”
After Tyler left, I spent the rest of the morning in a foul mood. I couldn't focus on the blueprints. The thought of my father sitting in a cell, trying to pull the strings of our family one last time, infuriated me.
Eleanor noticed my distress. She silently poured me a fresh cup of coffee and sat across from me.
“You’re angry,” Eleanor observed quietly.
“I have every right to be,” I snapped, before immediately softening. “I’m sorry, Eleanor. I just… I don't want him back in my head.”
Eleanor reached across the island and covered my hand with hers.
“Sarah, forgiveness isn't about absolving someone of their sins,” Eleanor said gently. “It’s about freeing yourself from the burden of carrying their darkness. If you don't face him, his ghost will haunt your success forever.”
I looked at her. “You think I should go?”
“I think you are strong enough to walk into that prison, look the man who broke you in the eye, and show him that you fixed yourself without him,” Eleanor smiled fiercely.
I took a deep breath, the anger slowly draining, replaced by a cold, resolute clarity.
“You’re right,” I said.
Two hours later, I was sitting in the sterile, gray visitor’s room of the federal penitentiary, waiting behind a thick pane of bulletproof glass.
The heavy steel door opened, and two guards escorted my father into the room.
I barely recognized him.
Richard Mitchell, the powerful, intimidating CEO who had ruled our family with an iron fist, looked like a frail, broken old man. His orange jumpsuit hung loosely on his thin frame. His hair had turned entirely white.
He sat down across from me, picking up the heavy black telephone receiver.
I picked up mine.
“Sarah,” Richard rasped, his eyes filling with tears the moment he saw me. “You came.”
“Tyler said you wanted to make amends,” I said, my voice completely devoid of emotion. “Make them.”
My father swallowed hard, his hands trembling.
“I was wrong about you,” Richard wept, leaning close to the glass. “I was so blinded by my own ego, my own greed. I thought Tyler was the future because he did what I told him to. But you… you built your own empire. I’m so proud of you, Sarah.”
I stared at him, feeling absolutely nothing.
“Is that what you brought me here to say?” I asked coldly. “That you’re proud of the daughter you threw out like trash?”
“No,” Richard choked out. “I brought you here to warn you.”
I frowned. “Warn me about what?”
Richard looked over his shoulder nervously at the guards, then leaned closer to the glass, his voice dropping to a frantic whisper.
“Vincent Moretti is in solitary confinement,” Richard said. “But he’s still running his family from the inside. And Sarah… he knows it was you and Marcus Thorne who set him up at the pier.”
“Vincent is going to prison for the rest of his life,” I said dismissively. “He can't hurt me.”
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“You don't understand,” Richard panicked, his eyes wide with genuine terror. “The Morettis don't care about prison! They care about vengeance! Vincent put a hit out on you, Sarah. The contract was accepted yesterday.”
TITLE: The Hitman In The Rain
