Chapter 8
I called Cecilia from St. Catherine’s.
No warning.
Probably selfish.
I could not stop myself.
A woman answered.
“Hello?”
I knew immediately.
Not logically.
Something in the voice.
“Cecilia?”
Silence.
Then:
“Ben?”
I had not heard that name spoken in twenty-six years.
My knees weakened.
Vincent looked away.
I went into the next room.
“Yes.”
She cried first.
Then I did.
No Mafia dignity.
No cold boss voice.
Just siblings whose childhood had been edited by other people.
“I thought you hated me,” I said.
“I thought you chose them.”
“We were children.”
“You were thirteen.”
“I know.”
Another silence.
Then she asked:
“Why now?”
I told her.
Not every detail.
Enough.
My children.
Suitcases.
New names.
St. Catherine’s.
Cecilia stopped crying.
Her voice became cold.
“Vincent?”
“Yes.”
“I told you.”
She meant the tape.
“I know.”
“Are the kids safe?”
“Yes.”
“Do they know what was happening?”
“Too much.”
She sighed.
Then:
“Don’t make them hear the whole family history tonight.”
Wise.
I almost laughed.
“Still bossing me.”
“Older sister.”
Fair.
I asked if she wanted to come back.
She answered immediately.
“No.”
That hurt.
Then she clarified.
“I want to see you.”
Different.
“I don’t want Ferrante back.”
Important.
I understood.
We arranged a meeting outside the estate.
Her choice.
Before hanging up she said:
“Ben?”
“Yes?”
“When Milo asks why they tried to send him away, don’t tell him it was because he mattered too much.”
I frowned.
“Why?”
“Because children turn that into responsibility.”
She was right.
The conspiracy was about power.
Not because my kids were special.
Because adults assigned meaning to them.
I returned to the room.
Vincent looked at me.
“She coming home?”
I stared.
“No.”
May you like
His disappointment revealed everything.
He still thought home meant where Ferrante wanted you.
