Chapter 9 – THE MAN WHO CHOSE HIS SON

“Daddy, no more bang.”

Leo’s words were barely louder than a whisper.

Ricardo looked down at him.

The boy was holding Benny between them, as though the little bear could protect them both.

“No more bang,” Ricardo repeated softly.

Leo nodded.

“Promise?”

Ricardo’s eyes filled.

For a moment, I wondered whether he would make the kind of promise adults sometimes make when they can’t bear to disappoint a child.

That nothing frightening would ever happen again.

That everyone would always be safe.

That the world could be controlled if only somebody loved hard enough.

Instead, Ricardo took his son’s little hand.

“I’m going to do everything I can to keep you safe.”

Leo studied him.

“Daddy stay?”

Ricardo kissed his forehead.

“Daddy stays.”

The boy settled against him.

I watched Ricardo hold his son without asking another question about the shooting.

It was a small change.

But after everything I’d seen, it felt enormous.

Later that afternoon, Ricardo called his attorney and requested that the complete security records from Mercer be turned over to the investigators handling Elena’s death.

He didn’t ask me to stay for the conversation.

I was grateful.

I wasn’t interested in becoming part of the Moretti family’s business.

I wanted a frightened little boy to feel safe.

Those were two very different things.

When Ricardo returned, he looked exhausted.

“Dante’s been removed from his position,” he said.

I nodded.

“He admitted what he did?”

“He gave me his account. He’ll have to give it to the investigators, too.”

Ricardo looked toward the window.

“I’ve spent years believing loyalty meant keeping problems inside the family.”

“And now?”

He glanced upstairs.

“Now I think that’s how problems become tragedies.”

The next few days were difficult.

Dante’s departure unsettled the household.

Several security arrangements had to change, and Ricardo refused to let anybody explain the changes to Leo by saying his father was in danger.

Instead, he told the boy that new people would be helping keep the house safe, and that he could ask questions whenever he wanted.

Leo’s first question was whether the new guards would yell.

Ricardo promised they wouldn’t.

Then he made sure they understood that promise.

He also arranged an appointment with a child psychologist who specialized in helping young children after frightening events.

Her name was Dr. Patel.

She came to the house for the first meeting because Leo was uncomfortable around unfamiliar places.

I was there when she arrived.

She didn’t carry a clipboard into the sitting room or begin asking Leo about his mother.

She sat on the carpet and asked whether she could see his blocks.

Leo watched her suspiciously.

Then handed her a yellow one.

For twenty minutes, they built a tower.

Nobody asked him about gunshots.

Nobody asked what he’d seen.

Nobody told him to stop crying.

When the appointment ended, Dr. Patel spoke privately with Ricardo.

He later told me what she had emphasized.

“Leo needs predictable routines,” he said. “He needs to know who’s caring for him and when he’ll see them again.”

“That makes sense.”

“She also said I need help.”

I looked at him.

He gave a small, embarrassed smile.

“Apparently shouting at people isn’t a recognized parenting strategy.”

I laughed.

Ricardo’s smile faded.

“She thinks I should talk to somebody about Elena.”

“Will you?”

He looked toward the staircase.

“I’ve made an appointment.”

I nodded.

“Good.”

He seemed surprised.

“What?”

“Nothing. I’m glad.”

Ricardo studied me.

Then he said quietly, “I don’t think anybody’s ever told me that getting help was a good decision.”

I didn’t know how to answer.

So I simply said, “Well, it is.”

Over the next week, Leo began speaking more.

Not in long conversations.

Mostly ordinary little things.

He asked for pancakes.

He complained when his socks were uncomfortable.

He announced that Benny preferred bananas, although I strongly suspected the bear had never expressed an opinion about fruit.

One afternoon, he knocked over a cup of water.

The crash made him freeze.

Ricardo was standing nearby.

I watched the father look at the spilled water.

Then at his son.

For one terrible second, Leo seemed to expect shouting.

Ricardo reached for a towel.

“Accidents happen, buddy.”

Leo stared at him.

“Not mad?”

“No.”

He handed Leo a corner of the towel.

“Want to help?”

The boy nodded.

Together, they cleaned the floor.

I nearly cried watching them.

Because healing sometimes looks like a child learning that a mistake won’t cost him someone’s love.

That Friday, Ricardo came to Il Destino while I was working the lunch shift.

He wore a dark gray suit instead of his usual black.

There were still two security men nearby.

But he entered without stopping the entire restaurant.

Marco greeted him nervously.

Ricardo shook his hand.

“I wanted to apologize again for the way I behaved last week.”

Marco blinked.

“Mr. Moretti, that really isn’t necessary.”

“It is.”

Ricardo glanced toward the dining room.

“I frightened your staff. I threatened your business. Neither was acceptable.”

Marco looked genuinely surprised.

Then he nodded.

“Thank you.”

Ricardo turned toward me.

“And I wanted to thank Clara.”

My cheeks warmed.

I wished he hadn’t chosen the middle of the lunch rush.

But his voice was quiet and sincere.

“She helped my son when I didn’t know how.”

I looked down.

“Leo did the hard part.”

Ricardo smiled.

“He’s very proud of Benny’s ear.”

“Tell him I expect regular medical updates.”

He laughed.

For a moment, everything felt almost normal.

Then Marco asked me to come into his office.

“I need to discuss your schedule,” he said.

My stomach tightened.

I followed him inside.

He handed me a revised rota.

My Saturday lunch shift was gone.

So was Sunday’s dinner service.

I stared at the page.

“Marco, I need those hours.”

He looked confused.

“I thought you knew.”

“Knew what?”

“Mr. Moretti called yesterday. He said he needed you available more often at the house.”

I looked at the schedule again.

“He said he’d compensate you for the difference.”

I felt a cold knot forming in my stomach.

“Did he?”

Marco frowned.

“He told me he was arranging a permanent position for you.”

I stared at him.

Nobody had asked me whether I wanted a permanent position.

Nobody had asked whether I could afford to leave Il Destino.

Nobody had even asked what I wanted my life to look like.

And suddenly, I thought about Elena.

About her letters.

About the little house she’d wanted her husband to see.

About all the decisions other people had made because they believed they knew what was best.

I returned to the dining room.

Ricardo was standing beside the windows.

He smiled when he saw me.

The smile disappeared when he noticed my expression.

“Clara?”

I held up the revised schedule.

“Did you arrange for my shifts to be changed?”

He hesitated.

“I thought it would make things easier.”

“For whom?”

“Leo needs consistency, and I thought—”

“You thought.”

He stopped.

I looked directly at him.

“Ricardo, did you ever consider asking me what I wanted before deciding where I belonged?”

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