Chapter 23
Dominic returned to Nico’s house when Mila was sixteen.
Not the estate.
Sienna’s house.
That distinction mattered.
Sienna invited him.
Not Nico.
Luca was thirteen.
Mila sixteen.
They knew the broad history.
Not every account.
Not every message.
Enough.
Dominic had become a person in old family photographs.
The man beside Grandpa.
The man who disappeared.
Mila asked:
“Why doesn't he come?”
Nico answered:
“Because I didn't invite him.”
“Why?”
Thirty-one years compressed into one teenager’s question.
Nico explained.
The fund.
Richard.
Gavin.
The letter.
Not in detail.
Mila listened.
Then:
“Was Grandpa fund bad?”
“The first part?”
Nico looked toward Sienna.
She did not help.
“Yes and no.”
Mila groaned.
“Adults.”
Fair.
Nico tried again.
“Dominic saw families being punished for things they didn't do.”
“That was bad.”
“Yes.”
“So he helped.”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“Secretly.”
Mila frowned.
“Why?”
“Because he thought I would stop him.”
“Would you?”
Nico took time.
“Yes.”
There it was.
Mila looked at him.
“So he was right.”
“About that.”
“But?”
Nico almost smiled.
“He let the secret become more important than the people it was supposed to help.”
Better.
Sienna invited Dominic to dinner.
One meal.
No business.
Nico arrived later.
He saw Dominic at the table.
Stopped.
Old anger appeared.
So did something else.
Familiarity.
Dominic looked toward him.
“If you want me to leave—”
“No.”
Nico sat.
Dinner was awkward for fifteen minutes.
Then Luca asked Dominic:
“Did Grandpa really punch a wall in Sicily?”
Nico stared.
Dominic smiled.
“Yes.”
Sienna looked delighted.
“Please continue.”
Traitor.
Old stories returned.
Not the ones about power.
Small ones.
Nico getting seasick.
Dominic breaking an engagement ring before proposing.
A terrible restaurant in Palermo.
Mila watched her grandfather laugh.
Not often.
Different laugh.
Older.
When dinner ended, Dominic stood.
No assumption he would stay.
Nico walked him to the door.
“Coffee Thursday?”
Dominic looked at him.
“At the café?”
“Yes.”
Not the office.
Good.
“Okay.”
Their friendship had survived.
That was finally true.
Not intact.
Not restored.
Changed.
Dominic never became consigliere again.
Never regained access.
Never signed a Ferrante authorization.
He and Nico met for coffee.
Attended funerals.
Argued about baseball.
Sometimes went months without speaking.
Trust returned in one category.
Not another.
That distinction became the reason the friendship could exist at all.
Nico had spent decades believing trust meant full access.
Now Dominic could be his friend without becoming his instrument.
May you like
Maybe that should have been obvious.
It had taken thirty-five years.
