Chapter 7 - THE THING MARCO COULD FINALLY SEE
Dominic survived.
The bullet entered beneath his ribs and missed his liver by less than an inch.
When Marco visited two days later, his cousin was sitting upright, complaining about hospital coffee.
“You look terrible.”
Dominic looked at Marco’s eye.
“You can see me?”
“Unfortunately.”
“Good.”
Silence.
Marco sat.
Dominic stared at the window.
“I thought he wanted me.”
“Vale?”
“Yes.”
“He did.”
“No.”
Dominic shook his head.
“He wanted a version of me.”
Marco understood.
“A son who hated the Bellinis.”
“He kept telling me everything I lost because of you.”
“What did you lose?”
Dominic looked at him.
“Nothing you didn’t lose too.”
That was more honest than Marco expected.
Dominic continued:
“You got the chair.”
“I got it because my father was murdered.”
“I know.”
“You got three routes.”
“I wanted four.”
“Greedy.”
Dominic almost smiled.
Then pain interrupted.
Marco waited.
“Margaret?”
“She’s outside.”
“She keeps crying.”
“She’s your mother.”
“Yes.”
Dominic looked down.
“Giuseppe was my father.”
Marco nodded.
“Yes.”
Not technically.
Actually.
In every way that mattered.
Dominic looked relieved.
Then:
“Do I still have to leave Long Island?”
Marco stared.
“Yes.”
Dominic groaned.
“Worth asking.”
“But not forever.”
His cousin looked up.
Marco continued:
“You cooperate. You stay out of operations. You figure out who you are when nobody is offering you my chair.”
Dominic nodded slowly.
“That sounds terrible.”
“Probably good for you.”
“What about Vivian?”
“Gone.”
“Sorry.”
Marco looked at him.
Dominic corrected:
“Not sorry she’s gone. Sorry it happened.”
“Better.”
“And Sofia?”
Marco narrowed his eyes.
“What about her?”
Dominic smiled faintly.
“There it is.”
“What?”
“The face.”
“What face?”
“The one where you pretend nothing is happening.”
Marco stood.
“Hospital drugs are affecting you.”
Dominic laughed until his stitches hurt.
Marco left.
Outside, Sofia sat beside Margaret with two cups of coffee.
She handed Marco one.
“Dominic okay?”
“Yes.”
“Margaret?”
“No.”
Margaret looked up.
“I’m sitting here.”
Sofia smiled apologetically.
“Sorry.”
Margaret surprised them by laughing.
Small.
Exhausted.
Marco drove Sofia home that night.
Not ordered.
Asked.
She lived in a modest apartment in Queens with her mother and younger brother.
Marco had never seen it.
He had known where his employees lived only as addresses on files.
Sofia unbuckled her seat belt.
“Thank you.”
“Your shoulder?”
“Fine.”
“Cheek?”
“Also fine.”
“Vivian apologized?”
Sofia looked at him.
“She sent a letter.”
“What did it say?”
“I didn’t read it.”
Marco blinked.
“Why?”
“I don’t need an apology from someone who hit me because she hated what I knew.”
That stayed with him.
Sofia opened the door.
Marco said:
“Why did you work here?”
She paused.
“At the estate?”
“Yes.”
“My mother had surgery last year.”
He remembered.
“Kidney?”
“Yes.”
“I needed health insurance and predictable hours.”
“You were a nursing assistant.”
“Night shifts.”
“You liked it?”
“Sometimes.”
“Why not go back?”
Sofia shrugged.
“I might.”
Marco felt an unexpected disappointment.
She noticed.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“That face again.”
“What face?”
“The Dominic face.”
He groaned.
Apparently everyone had names for his expressions.
Sofia smiled.
Then became serious.
“You don’t need me now.”
Marco looked at her.
“My vision is improving.”
“I know.”
“You found half the conspiracy.”
“I found things because people didn’t notice me.”
“That isn’t the same as not needing you.”
She went still.
Marco heard his own sentence.
Too personal.
He corrected poorly.
“I mean the house could use someone in security review.”
“A maid in security?”
“You keep saying maid like it means incapable.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“You said it first at Pier Twelve.”
“Bad week.”
“That excuses everything?”
“No.”
He smiled.
“I’m learning.”
She looked at him for a moment.
Then:
“I’ll think about it.”
“Good.”
“Not yes.”
“I heard you.”
“Good night, Mr. Bellini.”
“Sofia.”
“What?”
“Marco.”
She studied him.
“Good night, Marco.”
He watched her walk inside.
The next morning, Keller removed the protective lens from Marco’s eye.
“Look straight.”
Marco did.
Letters.
Shapes.
Light.
Better.
Not perfect.
But better.
“What do you see?”
Marco read the chart.
Keller smiled.
“Sixty percent.”
Marco exhaled.
“Depth?”
“Improving.”
“Driving?”
“Not yet.”
“Stairs?”
“With care.”
Marco laughed.
“Everyone has opinions about stairs.”
Keller did not understand.
That afternoon, Marco gathered his captains.
No dark glasses.
Some noticed the red eye.
He let them.
He stood at the head of the table.
“I’m not fully recovered.”
The room shifted.
Old Marco would never have started there.
He continued:
“My left eye may never return to what it was.”
Nobody spoke.
“That does not make Dominic boss.”
A few men almost smiled.
“It does not make Anthony boss.”
Anthony said, “Thank God.”
A few laughs.
Marco continued:
“And it does not make any of you entitled to plan my funeral before I choose the flowers.”
More laughter.
Tension broke.
Then Marco became serious.
“Thomas Vale used our fear of weakness against this family.”
He looked around.
“He watched me hide mine.”
Then at the captains.
“And watched some of you mistake secrecy for instability.”
A man named Rocco lowered his eyes.
Marco saw.
“We change that now.”
“What changes?” Rocco asked.
“No private succession meetings.”
Several faces stiffened.
“Disputes come to the table.”
“Even with you?” another asked.
Marco nodded.
“Especially with me.”
That was harder than any gunfight.
His father had ruled by certainty.
Marco would have to rule while permitting disagreement.
He was not sure yet whether that was strength.
He knew it frightened him.
Good sign.
After the meeting, Anthony stayed.
“You’re different.”
“Careful.”
“I mean it positively.”
“Worse.”
Anthony smiled.
Then handed him a file.
“Vale talked.”
Marco frowned.
“Already?”
“He wants a deal.”
“What did he give?”
“A name.”
“Who?”
Anthony looked uncomfortable.
“The ambush shooter.”
Marco waited.
“Rocco.”
Marco stared toward the conference-room door.
The captain who had just sat at his table.
Again.
Inside.
Always inside.
“Proof?”
“Vale gave location of payment stash. Rocco’s prints.”
Marco’s jaw tightened.
Anthony continued:
“He says Rocco is leaving tonight.”
Marco looked toward the hallway.
Sofia had just arrived for her security-review shift.
She saw his face.
“What?”
He held out the file.
“Another one.”
She read.
Then looked at him.
“You’re tired.”
“I’m surrounded by traitors.”
“Not surrounded.”
He stared.
She gestured around the hallway.
“Anthony.”
Then toward herself.
“Me.”
Toward the ballroom, where old staff were resetting tables.
“Maria in the kitchen. Mr. Chen in maintenance. Half the guards.”
Marco followed her gaze.
“So?”
“So don’t let the people who betrayed you become more important than the people who didn’t.”
He said nothing.
Sofia handed back the file.
“Go deal with Rocco.”
Marco almost smiled.
“You say that like I’m taking out trash.”
“You are.”
Rocco was arrested at Kennedy Airport that evening.
No warehouse.
No execution.
No disappearing man.
Marco gave the evidence to investigators already handling Vale.
His father would have called it weakness.
Marco slept better than he had in weeks.
At 2:13 a.m., he woke.
No headache.
He removed the sleep mask.
No camera.
He stood.
Walked toward the window.
The moonlight cast the furniture in soft edges.
He could see the chair.
The dresser.
The door.
Not perfectly.
Enough.
Marco left his room.
Walked toward the upper gallery.
The temporary rail remained.
Sofia had insisted maintenance bolt it properly.
He put one hand on it.
Looked down.
For the first time since surgery, the staircase had depth.
He could see where the floor ended.
Where the first step began.
Marco smiled.
Then heard a voice behind him.
“You’re not supposed to practice alone.”
Sofia.
She stood in the hallway carrying a folder.
“Why are you here at two in the morning?”
“Vale evidence.”
“Why are you carrying Vale evidence at two in the morning?”
“Anthony forgot it.”
Marco looked at the stairs.
“I can see them.”
Her face softened.
“All of them?”
“Enough.”
He took the first step.
Then second.
No dizziness.
No empty air.
Sofia stayed behind him.
At the landing, Marco turned.
“I didn’t need you.”
She smiled.
“No.”
He laughed softly.
“But I’m glad you were there.”
Something changed between them.
Small.
Quiet.
May you like
Neither named it.
Not yet.
