Chapter 6 - THE HOUSE WITHOUT A ROMANO GATE
Clara rented a two-bedroom apartment in Oak Park.
Not with my money.
That mattered to her.
The severance went into a protected account she could use if needed.
She left most of it untouched.
Gabriel entered a cooperation program and eventually moved into an apartment three blocks away after prosecutors cleared him of the theft and reduced unrelated charges tied to things he had done while working inside my businesses.
Nobody in this story was perfectly clean.
That included him.
That included me.
Especially me.
My own legal reckoning took longer.
I surrendered interests in illegal gambling operations.
Closed cash businesses.
Forfeited properties tied directly to criminal income.
Moretti—no, Romano Logistics—entered federal monitoring.
Legitimate development companies remained.
So did hotels.
Commercial real estate.
A food distribution company I barely remembered buying.
The part of my empire people saw in newspapers survived.
The part built in basements did not.
Several captains hated me.
Two left Chicago.
One went to prison with Matteo.
Santoro took a plea years later.
Nico stayed.
Not as “second-in-command.”
That title died with the old structure.
He became COO of Romano Holdings.
He complained daily.
“I used to settle problems with one phone call.”
“You still can.”
“Now they involve tax attorneys.”
“Consequences.”
“I hate growth.”
I almost smiled.
The strangest part was the study.
Lily’s chair remained beside my desk.
Empty.
Crayons still in the drawer.
One yellow pencil had teeth marks from where she once tried to “sharpen it herself.”
The first week after Clara moved, I caught myself looking toward the chair every morning.
Ridiculous.
Then Clara texted.
Not Lily.
Clara.
She wants to see you. Saturday. Two hours. Park. Public.
I stared at the message for five minutes.
Nico looked over.
“Bad news?”
“No.”
“Why do you look terrified?”
“Shut up.”
Saturday, I arrived ten minutes early.
No security visible.
Two agents at a distance because my cooperation agreement still came with threats.
Lily ran toward me wearing a purple coat.
“Mister Alessandro!”
I crouched.
She crashed into me.
I almost fell.
“You’re heavy.”
“I’m three.”
Apparently explanation enough.
Clara approached slowly.
No uniform.
No estate clothes.
Jeans.
Green sweater.
Hair loose.
For the first time, she looked like someone I had never really seen while she worked for me.
Not housekeeper.
Clara.
A woman.
That realization created problems I refused to explore yet.
We walked.
Lily fed ducks bread until Clara explained bread was bad for them.
Then she cried because she thought she had poisoned one.
Three-year-old moral crises are exhausting.
I bought approved duck pellets from a kiosk.
Clara looked at me.
“You did not need to buy the entire bag.”
“She was upset.”
“Children survive disappointment.”
I almost said:
I know.
Then remembered how badly I once used that idea.
Instead:
“I’m learning.”
She noticed.
Said nothing.
Lily eventually climbed onto a bench.
“Mister Alessandro?”
“Yes?”
“Why no big house?”
“I still have it.”
“Why I no live there?”
Clara stiffened.
I looked at her.
Permission?
She nodded.
I answered carefully.
“Because your mommy wanted a home that belonged to you two.”
“Big house ours too.”
“No.”
I shook my head.
“That was my mistake.”
Lily frowned.
“What mistake?”
“I made you feel like you could lose your home if I got angry.”
She stared.
“That was scary.”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t like.”
“I know.”
She crossed tiny arms.
“Don’t do again.”
“Okay.”
Then:
“Promise?”
I hesitated.
Clara watched.
I chose words carefully.
“I promise I will never decide where you and your mommy live because I’m angry.”
Lily accepted.
Good.
After the park, Clara said:
“She asks about you every night.”
My chest tightened.
“What do you tell her?”
“That you’re working.”
“Bad work?”
I smiled despite myself.
“She asks that too.”
“And?”
“That you’re trying to do better work.”
Fair.
Months passed.
Visits became regular.
Saturday park.
Then lunch.
Then the zoo.
The first time Lily returned to my estate, she stopped at the gate.
I saw fear.
We did not go in.
I knelt.
“Want to leave?”
Nod.
We left.
No speech about overcoming fear.
No pressure.
Three weeks later, she asked to try again.
This time she entered.
Went directly to my study.
Saw the little chair.
Stopped.
“You kept.”
“Yes.”
She climbed into it.
Then looked at me.
“You mad?”
“No.”
“At Gabriel?”
I thought.
“Not anymore.”
“Good.”
She took a crayon.
Case closed.
Clara stood in the doorway.
Her eyes met mine.
Something softened.
Then immediately guarded itself.
Good.
She should be careful.
I had too much history.
One afternoon, six months after Matteo’s arrest, Clara asked to speak without Lily.
We sat in a coffee shop.
No estate.
No employees.
Neutral.
She said:
“I’m starting school.”
I looked up.
“For?”
“Licensed practical nursing.”
I blinked.
“You wanted that?”
“Before Lily.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Money.”
I almost offered.
Stopped.
She noticed.
“Good.”
“What?”
“You almost tried to fix it.”
“Yes.”
She smiled.
“I got aid. Gabriel is helping with childcare. I’ll work part-time.”
“Where?”
“Not for you.”
“Obviously.”
Her smile widened.
That sound—no, smile—did something dangerous.
Then she became serious.
“I need to know something.”
“What?”
“Why did Lily affect you so much?”
I looked down.
The answer lived nineteen years behind my ribs.
I had never told anyone outside Nico.
Not fully.
“My sister.”
Clara waited.
“Lucia.”
I was eighteen.
Lucia was seven.
Our father controlled our home the way he controlled everything.
Through fear.
He hit my mother.
Rarely where people could see.
Often enough.
I learned to disappear.
Lucia learned to hide.
One night, she came into my room.
Asked:
“If I go away, will Papa stop being mad at Mama?”
My breathing tightened.
Clara went still.
“What did you say?”
“I told her to go back to bed.”
I stared at my coffee.
“She left the house.”
Clara covered her mouth.
“It was raining.”
My voice became flat.
“She tried to cross Halsted alone.”
A car hit her.
She died before morning.
For nineteen years, I dreamed about her standing in my doorway asking whether disappearing would save our mother.
Then Lily asked almost the same question.
“If I leave, will Mommy get to stay?”
Clara’s eyes filled.
I continued:
“I became my father in the exact way I swore I never would.”
“No.”
I looked up sharply.
Clara shook her head.
“You became like him for a moment.”
“That’s enough.”
“Yes.”
She did not soothe.
Good.
“But then you changed the order.”
“After Lily ran.”
“Yes.”
“Too late.”
“For that night.”
She leaned forward.
“Not for every night after.”
I looked away.
Dangerous hope again.
Then Clara said:
“You cannot spend the rest of your life trying to save Lucia through Lily.”
I froze.
My therapist had said something similar.
I disliked both of them.
“She’s not your second chance at your sister.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
I thought.
“I’m trying.”
She nodded.
“That matters.”
Then she stood.
“Class starts Monday.”
“Congratulations.”
“Thank you.”
At the door, she turned.
“Lily wants pizza Saturday.”
“Fine.”
“And no expensive restaurant.”
“Why?”
“She likes the place with plastic cups.”
I sighed.
“Apparently money has no influence in this family.”
Clara stopped.
Family.
I had said it accidentally.
Her face changed.
May you like
So did mine.
Neither corrected it.
