Chapter 9 - SIX HOURS OF SCREAMING, TEN YEARS LATER
Ten years after the night I crossed Bellavita’s dining room, Dominic Moretti still hated the word colic.
Mostly because the story had become family legend.
Antonio was ten.
Lucia was five.
I was forty-one.
Dominic was forty-five and had exactly six gray hairs he denied existed.
Bellavita still stood.
Same brass wall sconces.
Same rainy Chicago windows.
Different manager.
Same old staff in some places.
Every year on Antonio’s birthday, we ate there.
Not because of what nearly happened.
Because of what happened after.
That year, Antonio brought three friends.
They knew pieces of the story.
Unfortunately.
One asked:
“Is it true your dad thought colic was a criminal?”
Antonio grinned.
“Yes.”
Dominic stared at me.
“You told him.”
“The manager told everybody.”
From across the room, my old manager—now part owner—raised his glass.
Guilty.
Lucia climbed into Dominic’s lap.
“What’s colic?”
“A thing babies get.”
“Who gives it to them?”
I nearly spit out my wine.
Dominic glared.
“Very funny.”
Antonio laughed until he cried.
The room felt warm.
Normal.
No armed men around a bassinet.
No staff avoiding eye contact.
Dominic’s legitimate companies now operated like companies.
Actual HR.
Actual compliance.
He sold nearly every business tied to the old organization.
Some money disappeared with the changes.
He did not care.
Enough remained.
More than enough.
His greatest achievement, according to him, was no longer having anyone call him “Boss” inside the house.
Caterina still did accidentally when angry.
Nobody was perfect.
Gabriel? Not in this version. Good.
Francesca ran the family foundation now.
Public school grants.
Maternal-health programs.
No giant portraits of Moretti donors.
Lucia would have approved.
David Romano came for Sunday dinner twice a month.
He and Dominic still disagreed about almost everything.
Especially baseball.
Healthy.
Rosa Bennett became director of newborn-care training for a private agency.
She had forgiven herself slowly.
Dominic apologized to her again years later.
She told him:
“Stop. I already heard you.”
Good.
Detective Alvarez retired.
We sent him a Bellavita gift card.
He replied:
NO PRIVATE ROOMS.
I laughed.
And me?
I became a pediatric nurse practitioner.
The title took more school than I expected.
Dominic complained he saw me less during exams.
I reminded him he survived.
I worked at a community clinic two neighborhoods from where I grew up.
Not because I rejected wealth.
Because I liked children whose parents walked in terrified and left understanding what to do.
I especially liked newborn visits.
Not every day.
Some days Leo’s memory still came unexpectedly.
A blue blanket.
A heart murmur.
A mother crying in the hall.
On those days, I stepped out if needed.
Then returned.
Healing never became forgetting.
Thank God.
On the tenth anniversary of Leo’s death, Dominic asked what I wanted to do.
Not planned something.
Asked.
I took him, Antonio, and Lucia to the little cemetery where Leo was buried.
Antonio knew about him.
Lucia did too.
We brought flowers.
Lucia asked:
“Would Leo be my brother?”
“Yes.”
“Even though he died before me?”
“Yes.”
She thought.
“Would he be older?”
“Yes.”
“How old?”
“Fourteen.”
She nodded seriously.
Then placed a toy car beside the grave.
“Boys like cars.”
Antonio looked offended.
“Not all boys.”
Family debate at cemetery.
Perfect.
I cried.
Dominic held my hand.
Did not tell me not to.
That evening, we returned to Bellavita.
At another table, a young couple struggled with a crying baby.
The father looked mortified.
The mother looked exhausted.
Every cry made the father bounce faster.
I watched.
Dominic noticed.
“No.”
I looked at him.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You’re thinking.”
“I am a pediatric professional.”
“You’re off duty.”
Then the mother looked around helplessly.
Our eyes met.
I gave a small smile.
Not approaching.
Not imposing.
She hesitated.
Then came over.
“Excuse me.”
I stood.
“Yes?”
“I heard the waiter say you work with kids.”
Dominic looked smug.
I ignored him.
“My baby’s been crying since dinner started.”
“How old?”
“Eight weeks.”
“Any fever?”
“No.”
“Feeding normally?”
“Yes.”
“Breathing okay?”
“Yes.”
“Wet diapers?”
“Yes.”
I nodded.
Then:
“Could be overstimulation. Could be gas. Could be fifty normal baby things.”
She exhaled.
“Should we leave?”
“If you want.”
I smiled.
“But you’re not doing anything wrong by having a baby in a restaurant.”
Her eyes filled unexpectedly.
“Thank you.”
She returned to her table.
Her husband carried the baby outside for a few minutes.
The crying eased.
Dominic watched.
Then:
“You didn’t take the baby.”
“No.”
“You didn’t tell them what to do.”
“No.”
“You’re losing your touch.”
I smiled.
“Maybe I learned.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“From me?”
“Absolutely not.”
Antonio laughed.
Then he asked:
“Dad, why did you take me to a restaurant when I was screaming six hours?”
The question arrived exactly as deserved.
Dominic stared.
“I was an idiot.”
Antonio blinked.
That easy.
“No excuse?”
“No.”
“Were you scared?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you just take me to a doctor?”
Dominic looked at him.
Because this was the real lesson.
“I kept waiting for somebody around me to fix it.”
Antonio listened.
“And because everybody was afraid of me, they kept pretending they could.”
Dominic’s voice softened.
“That was my fault.”
Not completely.
But enough.
Antonio nodded.
Then:
“Claire wasn’t afraid.”
I laughed.
“Yes, I was.”
He frowned.
“You told Dad off.”
“Fear and action can happen together.”
Antonio thought.
Then:
“Is that bravery?”
I smiled.
“Sometimes.”
Dominic looked at me.
“Definitely.”
Rain hit the windows.
Same sound.
Ten years.
The room no longer froze when Dominic spoke.
Waiters joked with him.
Children ran past his chair.
One busboy accidentally bumped his shoulder and simply said:
“Sorry, Mr. Moretti.”
Dominic replied:
“No problem.”
That might have shocked the old Bellavita staff more than anything.
Power had not disappeared.
Dominic remained wealthy.
Connected.
Capable of making rooms listen.
But he no longer needed every room to go silent.
That was different.
After dinner, the owner brought out a small cake.
Antonio groaned.
“Not the baby story again.”
Every year.
Tradition.
The cake had six candles.
One for every hour he screamed.
Dominic hated this tradition.
I created it.
Antonio blew them out.
Then asked:
“What did Claire say exactly?”
Dominic sighed.
Everyone looked at me.
I smiled.
“You’re hurting your own baby.”
Antonio laughed.
Dominic pointed at him.
“It was not funny.”
“No.”
I looked at Dominic.
“It wasn’t.”
The laughter faded slightly.
Because beneath the family joke remained something true.
A baby had been hurting.
A father had been overwhelmed.
A room full of adults had been frightened into uselessness.
And one waitress stepped forward.
Not because she was fearless.
Because she remembered what happened when love became helpless.
Dominic reached across the table.
Took my hand.
“Best thing anyone ever said to me.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“Really?”
“No.”
He smiled.
“The yes at Bellavita when I proposed was better.”
I laughed.
Then Antonio said:
“Mama Claire?”
I turned.
He still called me that sometimes.
“Yes?”
“Are you glad I screamed?”
The question stopped me.
I looked at him.
Then Dominic.
Then little Lucia eating frosting with one finger.
Then at the rain.
“No.”
Antonio looked surprised.
I continued.
“I’m glad you were okay.”
I touched his hair.
“And I’m glad I walked over.”
That was the truth.
I would never make his pain destiny.
Never say his suffering “had to happen” so I could find love.
Pain does not become good because something beautiful follows.
Leo did not die so I could meet Dominic.
Lucia did not die so Antonio could have me.
Antonio did not suffer so Dominic could become a better father.
Terrible things remained terrible.
The happiness came from what we chose afterward.
Dominic listened.
When I finished, he squeezed my hand.
No correction.
No grand speech.
He understood.
We left Bellavita at ten.
The rain had stopped.
Antonio ran ahead.
Lucia held Dominic’s hand.
I walked beside them.
At the curb, Dominic stopped.
“What?”
I asked.
He looked at our children.
Then me.
“Nothing.”
“That face is not nothing.”
He smiled.
“I was thinking about the first night.”
“The colic criminal?”
He groaned.
“No.”
“What?”
He looked at me.
“I threatened you.”
“Yes.”
“I told you there wouldn’t be anywhere in Chicago you could hide.”
“Yes.”
“That was awful.”
“Yes.”
He waited.
I offered no mercy.
He laughed.
Then:
“I’m glad you ignored me.”
I smiled.
“I’ve made a career of it.”
He kissed my forehead.
Antonio shouted from the car:
“Gross!”
Lucia copied him:
“GROSS!”
Dominic sighed.
“Children are terrible.”
“You wanted them.”
“True.”
We climbed into the car.
No armored convoy.
One SUV.
Car seats.
Crumbs everywhere.
Dominic started the engine.
I looked back at Antonio.
Ten years old.
Healthy.
Loud.
Exactly as a child should be.
Then I looked at Dominic.
The man everyone once feared approaching.
Now arguing with his daughter about seat belts.
I thought about what had changed him.
Not me alone.
Not Lucia alone.
Not Antonio.
Truth.
Repeated.
Uncomfortable.
Often delivered by people he could have ignored.
He simply learned not to.
And maybe that was why our ending was happy.
Not because the feared mafia boss became harmless.
Not because the grieving waitress forgot her dead son.
Not because a little boy found a replacement mother.
Because everybody finally had room to remain who they were.
Lucia was remembered.
Leo was remembered.
Antonio was loved.
Lucia Claire was loved.
Dominic took responsibility for the man he had been.
I returned to the work I thought grief had stolen forever.
And the first sentence that connected all of us remained the simplest.
The one nobody else had been willing to say.
You’re hurting your own baby.
Ten years later, Dominic still remembered every word.
But now, when someone told him he was hurting someone he loved—
May you like
he did not make the room go quiet.
He listened.
