Chapter 17
On my next birthday, Noah walked into the mountain lodge wearing boots.
That alone almost made me smile.
A year earlier, I found him barefoot in the snow wearing a torn reindeer outfit and carrying a wooden airplane everybody wanted out of my hands.
This year, he wore a small dark sweater and dragged a cardboard box almost as wide as he was.
Mark followed behind him.
No Claudia.
No Peter.
No frightened child wondering whether he was allowed near my table.
Noah dropped the box in front of me.
“Grandpa birthday.”
I opened it.
A wooden airplane.
Huge by Noah standards.
One wing crooked.
Too much glue near the tail.
My name carved into the side with letters that wandered up and down.
I touched it carefully.
“You made this?”
“Me and Daddy.”
Mark looked embarrassed.
“He designed it.”
“I can tell.”
Noah laughed.
Then he placed Ellen’s old airplane beside the new one.
Two generations of crooked wings.
For a moment, I could almost see Ellen standing in the room making fun of all of us.
Dinner started.
Noah sat beside me because he chose the chair himself.
Halfway through dessert, he looked toward the terrace doors.
Snow was falling outside.
I saw the memory reach him.
His smile faded.
Mark noticed too.
He started to speak.
Then stopped.
Good.
Noah looked at me.
“Grandpa?”
“Yes?”
“Can we go snow?”
My throat tightened.
“You want to?”
He nodded.
So we went.
Mark came too.
We put on coats.
Boots.
Gloves.
No one shoved anyone through a door.
No one called fear discipline.
No one threw his airplane after him.
Noah ran into the snow and immediately fell face-first into it.
He stood up laughing.
Mark laughed too.
I did something no respectable sixty-two-year-old Mafia boss should probably do.
I threw snow at my son.
He threw it back.
Noah screamed with joy and joined both sides.
Later, when we went inside, he placed the two airplanes on my birthday table.
The old one had once carried a key because Ellen did not know whether the truth would ever reach me.
The new one carried nothing.
No hidden compartment.
No note.
No warning.
Just a child’s gift.
That was the difference.
For years, the Bellacorte family survived by hiding truth inside things adults overlooked.
This generation would not need to.
Noah climbed into my lap, warm and exhausted.
“Grandpa likes gift?”
I looked at both airplanes.
Then at my grandson.
May you like
“Best one I ever got.”
This time, nobody tried to take it away.
