Chapter 11 - THE FINAL WHISPERS
Two months later, the air in Paris was crisp and tasted of rain and fresh pastries.
Olivia and I sat at a small sidewalk café in Montmartre. We were drinking espresso and sharing a plate of macarons. Olivia was sketching the Sacré-Cœur basilica in a small notebook, humming softly to herself. She had blossomed. The trauma of the wedding had faded into a fierce, independent strength. She was planning to return to her teaching job in the fall, and she was genuinely happy.
I took a sip of my coffee, feeling the cool breeze on my face. I was wearing a new trench coat, my hair styled differently, my posture straighter. I felt like a completely new woman.
My phone buzzed on the table.
It was an international number.
I frowned and answered it. "Hello?"
"Catherine."
The voice was hollow, raspy, and immediately recognizable.
My blood ran cold. "Peter."
"Don't hang up," he pleaded quickly. The sound of his voice made my skin crawl. "Please. I just get one phone call a week from this facility. Please."
I looked at Olivia, who was absorbed in her sketching. I stood up and walked a few feet away from the table, my grip on the phone tightening.
"How did you get this number?" I asked coldly.
"I paid a guard," Peter coughed. He sounded terrible. Broken. "Catherine, they're transferring me to a maximum-security federal penitentiary tomorrow. Eleanor's lawyers destroyed me in court. I'm going to die in a cage."
"You murdered my mother, Peter. A cage is exactly where you belong."
"I know!" he sobbed. The sound was pathetic. "I know what I did. I see her face every time I close my eyes. I see the tea. I see it all. I’m losing my mind in here."
"Why are you calling me?" I demanded.
There was a long pause on the line.
"I wanted to apologize," Peter whispered. "I wanted to say I'm sorry. For everything. For the gaslighting. For making you think you were crazy. For ruining Livvy's day."
I closed my eyes. For a fraction of a second, the ghost of the man I had married twenty-five years ago flickered in my memory. The man who had promised to love and cherish me.
But then I remembered the psychiatric intake form. I remembered the gun pointed at my chest.
"You're not sorry, Peter," I said, my voice steady and devoid of all emotion. "You're just sorry you got caught. You're scared of federal prison, and you want me to grant you some kind of absolution so you can sleep at night."
"Catherine, please—"
"No," I interrupted. "You don't get my forgiveness. You don't get my pity. You don't get to take up any more space in my head. You are dead to me, Peter. You are dead to your daughter."
"Catherine, I'm your husband!" he shrieked, a flash of his old narcissistic rage breaking through.
"Not anymore," I said. "The divorce papers were finalized by the judge yesterday, on account of your felony conviction. You are nothing to me."
I pulled the phone away from my ear. I could hear him screaming my name.
I pressed the red button, ending the call. Then, I blocked the number.
I stood on the Parisian street, breathing in the cold, clean air. A massive weight lifted from my shoulders. The final thread connecting me to the nightmare had been severed.
I walked back to the table. Olivia looked up from her sketch.
"Who was that?" she asked.
"Just a wrong number," I smiled, sitting down and picking up a macaron.
As we finished our coffee, my phone buzzed again. This time, it was a text message.
I hear it's raining in Paris. Keep an eye out for a package at your hotel front desk. - Dante.
I smiled, a genuine blush warming my cheeks.
When Olivia and I returned to our boutique hotel near the Seine, the concierge handed me a long, elegant white box wrapped in a black silk ribbon.
We took it up to our suite. I set the box on the bed and carefully untied the ribbon.
Inside, nestled in white tissue paper, was a stunning, custom-made pearl necklace. But it wasn't just any pearl necklace. Attached to the silver clasp was a tiny, intricately carved silver lion—the Valenti crest.
There was a handwritten note tucked beneath it.
Lions protect their own. Have a safe flight home. I’ll be waiting at the airport. Dinner is at eight. - D.
Olivia peeked over my shoulder and read the note. She gasped, a massive grin spreading across her face. "Mom! Oh my god. Are you going on a date with the mafia boss?"
May you like
I looked at the beautiful silver lion. I thought about Dante’s fierce loyalty, his quiet strength, and the way he had looked at me in the dawn light on Maple Street.
"Yes," I laughed, feeling a rush of pure joy. "Yes, I think I am."
