Chapter 7 - THE FIRST TIME CLARA CHOSE TO COME BACK
Clara finished her first semester with top marks.
I knew because Lily told everyone.
Including my receptionist.
Including a delivery driver.
Including a federal compliance officer who had no idea why a four-year-old was congratulating him on “Mommy’s A.”
Lily had turned four by then.
Her birthday was at a small park.
No mansion.
No photographers.
No men with guns.
Just children.
Cupcakes.
Clara.
Gabriel.
Nico, who spent twenty minutes arguing with a balloon artist because his tiger looked like “an orange goat.”
I attended as a guest.
That mattered.
Not host.
Not employer.
Guest.
Lily gave me a party hat.
I wore it.
Nico photographed this.
I threatened him.
Some habits remained.
Clara laughed.
Real laughter.
The kind she never gave me when she worked in my house.
Later, after everyone left, she sat beside me on a picnic table.
“You look ridiculous.”
“Thank you.”
“The hat is crooked.”
“I was shot twice and survived. This is worse.”
She smiled.
Then:
“Do you ever miss it?”
“What?”
“The old life.”
I looked toward Lily chasing Gabriel across grass.
“Parts.”
“Which?”
“Certainty.”
She understood.
“When you gave an order.”
“It happened.”
“And now?”
“Now attorneys ask questions.”
“Tragic.”
“Very.”
I smiled.
Then became serious.
“I miss knowing who I was.”
Clara looked at me.
“Did you?”
That was unfairly perceptive.
No.
I had known my role.
Not myself.
She said:
“Maybe that’s why you needed everyone afraid.”
“Probably.”
“Therapy?”
“Yes.”
“Still going?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
I looked at her.
“You sound surprised.”
“I am.”
“Why?”
“Powerful men usually prefer buying furniture to discussing childhood trauma.”
“Furniture doesn’t argue.”
“Exactly.”
She laughed again.
I wanted too much to keep hearing it.
That scared me.
So I said nothing.
For nearly a year after Clara left the estate, I never touched her.
Not casually.
Not by accident if I could avoid it.
She had spent years economically dependent on my house.
Then survived a threat created by my order.
Anything romantic before she had full independence would have felt contaminated by that history.
I wanted her.
I admitted that only to my therapist.
He called it “progress.”
I called it expensive humiliation.
Then one night, Clara called at 11:18.
Lily had a fever.
High.
Clara’s car would not start.
Gabriel was working.
“I need a ride to urgent care.”
That was all.
No dramatic emergency.
I sent a driver.
Then changed my mind.
Went myself.
Clara saw me behind the wheel.
“You own drivers.”
“Yes.”
“Then why are you driving?”
“I was nearby.”
Lie.
She knew.
Did not call me on it.
Lily sat in back wrapped in a blanket.
“Mister Alessandro?”
“Yes?”
“Hospital?”
“Probably not. Clinic.”
“Need shot?”
“I don’t know.”
“If shot, you do too.”
Clara laughed.
“Fair system.”
It was strep throat.
Antibiotics.
Nothing dangerous.
At one in the morning, we sat inside a twenty-four-hour pharmacy waiting for medication.
Clara looked exhausted.
Hair tied badly.
No makeup.
Beautiful.
Dangerously ordinary.
She leaned her head against the chair.
“I hate when she’s sick.”
“I know.”
“You don’t know everything.”
“Right.”
She smiled without opening her eyes.
“Progress.”
When Lily recovered, Clara texted:
Thank you for coming.
I answered:
You asked.
She replied:
You still came yourself.
I did not know how to answer.
Three days later, she invited me to dinner.
Without Lily.
I stared at the message so long Nico asked whether federal charges had returned.
“No.”
“Then what?”
“Clara.”
He smiled.
I considered firing him.
Dinner was at a neighborhood Italian place.
Plastic tablecloths.
Good food.
No one cared who I was.
Clara wore a dark blue dress.
I forgot several sentences.
“You’re staring.”
“No.”
“You are.”
“Sorry.”
She looked amused.
“Alessandro Romano apologizing.”
“Rare.”
“Should I document it?”
“Don’t become Nico.”
Her smile faded softly.
Then:
“This is a date.”
My chest stopped.
“What?”
“I’m clarifying.”
“You invited me.”
“Yes.”
“I assumed dinner.”
“It is dinner.”
“Clara.”
“I want you to know I chose the category.”
That sentence mattered more than she probably realized.
Choice.
Again.
I leaned back.
“Are you sure?”
“No.”
Fair.
“But I want to try.”
I felt fear.
Actual fear.
“What about Lily?”
“We don’t tell her anything yet.”
“Good.”
“And if this becomes complicated, we stop.”
“Fine.”
“No money.”
“I wasn’t—”
She raised an eyebrow.
“Fine.”
“No gifts over fifty dollars.”
“That’s absurd.”
“Then no gifts.”
“Fifty is fine.”
She smiled.
“And I keep my apartment.”
“Yes.”
“My job.”
“Yes.”
“My plans.”
“Yes.”
She studied me.
“You agreed too fast.”
“I’m not stupid.”
“Debatable.”
We ate.
Talked.
Not about Matteo.
Not the organization.
Not trauma for most of it.
Music.
Food.
School.
The fact that Clara secretly hated jazz.
I nearly ended the date.
She claimed jazz sounded like “three instruments arguing politely.”
Outrageous.
At the end, I walked her to her car.
No security visible.
No chauffeur.
Just us.
She looked up.
“This part is awkward.”
“Yes.”
“You’re supposed to ask something.”
I knew.
Still terrifying.
“Can I kiss you?”
She smiled.
“See? Therapy.”
I kissed her.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Her hand touched my chest.
Over the scar where Lily once slept listening to my heartbeat.
The circle felt too perfect.
I almost pulled away.
Clara did.
“Don’t make this about fate.”
I stared.
“What?”
“I know that face.”
“What face?”
“The one where everything becomes symbolic and tragic.”
I almost laughed.
“Fine.”
She touched my collar.
“This is just a kiss.”
“Okay.”
“Good kiss.”
“Better.”
She smiled.
Then kissed me again.
For the first time in years, I wanted something without immediately asking how to secure it.
That was new.
May you like
Terrifying.
Worth learning.
