Chapter 8 - MATTEO’S CHOICE
Bianca met Matteo in a secure interview room at the courthouse.
No Rocco.
That was Matteo’s request.
A therapist waited outside.
So did attorneys.
The meeting lasted twenty-seven minutes.
When Matteo emerged, his face was pale.
Rocco stood from the bench.
“Well?”
Matteo walked past him.
Rocco followed.
Outside, cold air hit them.
Matteo stopped beside the courthouse steps.
“She apologized.”
Rocco said nothing.
“For everything?”
“She tried.”
“Did you believe her?”
Matteo thought.
“Some.”
Rocco waited.
“She said she loved me once.”
“How did that feel?”
“Worse than if she said she never did.”
Rocco understood.
Love did not always prevent cruelty.
Sometimes people used love to excuse it.
“What did you say?”
Matteo stared at traffic.
“I told her I spent eleven years imagining what I would do if I saw her again.”
Rocco looked at him.
“And?”
“Sometimes I wanted to kill her.”
Honest.
“Sometimes I wanted her to hold me and tell me I’d imagined all of it.”
Rocco’s throat tightened.
“What today?”
“Neither.”
Matteo looked toward the courthouse.
“I wanted to leave.”
A small sentence.
Massive.
“So I did.”
Rocco put one hand on his shoulder.
Matteo stiffened.
Rocco immediately removed it.
“Sorry.”
Matteo looked at him.
Then, deliberately, reached out and returned Rocco’s hand to his shoulder.
“You can.”
Rocco’s eyes burned.
Matteo smiled faintly.
“I’m trying too.”
Bianca accepted a plea agreement.
Twenty-two years.
Possibility of parole later.
The court considered the duration of Matteo’s confinement, financial crimes, forged medical authorizations, poisoning of Lucia, and attempts to suppress witnesses.
Some Bellandis called the sentence betrayal.
Rocco stopped inviting those relatives to dinner.
Life became easier.
The family’s dirty businesses were harder.
Rocco had spent months seeing how fear corrupted every room it entered.
He could not unsee it now.
He began closing illegal operations.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Not because he had become saintly.
Because Matteo asked a question:
Can you leave now?
Rocco discovered he could.
At a cost.
Several captains left.
One threatened him.
Another cousin tried to take over gambling operations without permission.
Rocco turned records over to his attorney and walked away.
Enzo remained.
“What am I supposed to be now?” he asked.
“Security.”
“For restaurants?”
“And construction.”
Enzo looked disgusted.
“That sounds boring.”
“You have children.”
“Three.”
“Try being bored.”
Enzo thought.
“Health insurance?”
“Yes.”
“Vacation?”
“Yes.”
He shrugged.
“I can tolerate legitimacy.”
Rocco laughed.
The Bellandi businesses shrank.
Then became cleaner.
Restaurants.
Property.
Construction.
Import distribution.
The foundation reopened under independent leadership.
One program mattered especially.
Emergency childcare support for household employees.
Teresa found out and confronted Rocco.
“Did you make that because of me?”
“No.”
She raised one eyebrow.
“Because of Danny.”
“That is worse.”
“It applies to everyone.”
She considered.
“Okay.”
Progress.
Teresa eventually stopped cleaning Rocco’s house.
Not because she was fired.
Because she became operations manager for the Bellandi Foundation.
Rocco did not offer her the job directly.
An independent board interviewed her.
She nearly refused because she thought he interfered.
He showed her the emails proving he had not.
“Why do you look offended?” she asked.
“I’m learning restraint.”
“You’re very dramatic about it.”
Danny remained at his school.
He loved science.
Hated handwriting.
Still occasionally left wet towels on bathroom floors despite the life-changing symbolism rain should theoretically have given him.
Teresa considered this proof children were ungrateful.
Matteo moved out of Lucia’s room after nine months.
He rented a small apartment near Prospect Park.
Rocco offered him one of the Bellandi properties.
Matteo said:
“No.”
Rocco almost argued.
Then:
“Okay.”
Matteo smiled.
“Good.”
“What?”
“You’re improving.”
“I hate everyone.”
“That’s familiar.”
Matteo bought his own furniture.
Cheap couch.
Terrible lamp.
One framed photograph of Lucia.
Rocco helped assemble a bookshelf.
They fought over instructions.
Matteo eventually said:
“You know we could pay someone.”
Rocco stared.
“You wanted independence.”
“Not woodworking.”
For the first time since Matteo returned, their fight was normal.
That felt miraculous.
One year after the rainy night, Danny’s school held a family dinner.
Teresa was working late.
Danny asked whether Rocco could come.
Rocco stared.
“You want me at elementary-school spaghetti night?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Everyone brings someone.”
“Bring Matteo.”
“He’s coming too.”
Rocco felt trapped.
They went.
Rocco.
Matteo.
Enzo somehow appeared too because he claimed “security.”
The cafeteria was full of folding tables.
Paper plates.
Children screaming.
Rocco looked horrified.
“This is worse than prison.”
Matteo whispered:
“You’ve never been to prison.”
“Exactly.”
Danny waved from across the room.
“Over here!”
They sat.
A father nearby recognized Rocco.
Then recognized Matteo.
News of Matteo’s return had been public after court proceedings.
People stared.
Danny didn’t care.
He put spaghetti on Matteo’s plate.
Then Rocco’s.
Rocco looked at the plastic fork.
“Is this revenge?”
“Eat.”
Across from them was one empty chair.
Teresa arrived twenty minutes late.
She looked exhausted.
Danny jumped up.
“Mom!”
She sat.
“No room?”
Danny moved his chair.
“There’s always room.”
The sentence made Rocco go still.
Teresa noticed.
“You okay?”
“Yes.”
Real yes.
Dinner continued.
At dessert, Danny looked at Matteo.
“Are you still scared?”
Matteo thought.
“Sometimes.”
“What do you do?”
“Tell someone.”
Danny nodded.
Then looked at Rocco.
“Are you scary?”
Rocco almost choked.
Matteo laughed.
Teresa covered her face.
Rocco stared at the boy.
“To some people.”
“Why?”
“Long story.”
Danny considered.
“You’re not scary when you eat cafeteria spaghetti.”
Matteo laughed harder.
Rocco pointed at him.
“This is why you should’ve stayed dead.”
The words escaped before he thought.
Silence.
Rocco froze.
Matteo stopped laughing.
Teresa looked horrified.
Rocco’s face went pale.
“I’m sorry.”
Matteo stared.
Then burst out laughing again.
Harder.
Tears.
Rocco exhaled.
“Not funny.”
“It’s a little funny.”
“No.”
“It is.”
Danny looked confused.
Teresa whispered:
“Family.”
That was what it looked like now.
Messy.
Painful.
Alive.
Later, while walking home, Matteo stopped Rocco.
“I’ve been thinking.”
“Dangerous.”
“I want to change my name.”
Rocco stared.
“From Bellandi?”
“No.”
Matteo smiled.
“Back to Bellandi.”
Rocco understood.
For eleven years, records had called him Matthew Russo.
Another identity.
Another cage.
“I want it legally restored.”
Rocco nodded.
“I’ll have the lawyer—”
Matteo raised a hand.
“I already did it.”
Rocco smiled.
“Good.”
Matteo continued.
“And there’s one more thing.”
“What?”
“I’m changing Mom’s room.”
Rocco stared.
“What?”
“You kept it frozen for three years.”
“So?”
“She hated museums.”
Rocco almost laughed.
Matteo continued.
“I want to turn it into something useful.”
“Like what?”
Matteo looked back toward the neighborhood.
“A room for Danny.”
Rocco frowned.
“Danny has a home.”
“I know.”
“For what?”
“When Teresa works late.”
Rocco stared.
Matteo smiled.
“Not his room.”
“A kid room.”
“Books. Couch. Homework desk.”
Rocco understood.
A place where a child waiting for his mother belonged inside.
Not on the steps.
His throat tightened.
“What would Mom say?”
Matteo smiled.
“She’d complain about the furniture.”
Rocco laughed.
“She would.”
“And then she’d feed him.”
“Yes.”
Rocco looked toward the old brownstone.
“Do it.”
Matteo shook his head.
“No.”
Rocco frowned.
“What?”
“You ask Teresa first.”
Rocco sighed.
“This family has become exhausting.”
Matteo smiled.
May you like
“Healthier, though.”
“Unfortunately.”
