I Hid the Don’s Son for Three Years Chapter 09
They found the source faster than I expected.
Three days later, Luca put a stack of documents in front of me. The man in the photo was unfamiliar,
but his last name wasn’t – Bianchi. A distant
cousin of Rebecca’s, who’d scraped by on the family’s fringes. After Rebecca’s fall, he’d survived
the purge because he’d never been considered
“core.”
“He runs smuggling at the docks,” Luca said. His
tone was light, like he was talking about the
weather. “He sent those messages. He thought
kidnapping you would give him leverage to
negotiate.”
“Negotiate for what?”
“Money. And a way out.” Luca smiled, but it didn’t
reach his eyes. “He’s an idiot. I cornered the
Bianchis, sure, but they’re the ones who dug their
own graves. Now they’re begging me for mercy?
Too late.”
I flipped through the papers and saw a photo of a
child. A little girl, maybe five or six, in pigtails.
“His daughter,” Luca said. “She goes to public school. Her mother died last year.”
I stared at the picture. She was laughing, a playground slide behind her.
“Luca.”
“Mm.”
“Don’t kill him.”
He looked at me.
“Chase him away. Or hand him over to the police. Either way.” I put the photo down. “His daughter
didn’t do anything wrong. If you kill him, she’ll have
no one.”
Luca was quiet for a long time. Birds sang outside. Johnny’s laughter drifted down from upstairs, playing with the nanny.
“You’re always like this,” he finally said, his voice soft. “Rebecca almost ruined your face, and you told me not to go too far. He threatened you and Johnny, and you still don’t want me to kill him.”
“Because killing changes a person.” I looked at
him. “And I like who you are.”
He held my gaze. The same look he’d had when he
found me under the streetlight all those years ago
– intense, but with something else underneath.
Weariness, maybe. Or gratitude.
“All right,” he said. “I won’t kill him. I’ll turn him over
to the feds. The smuggling evidence alone will put
him away for ten years.”
I nodded, then went to the kitchen to warm milk
for Johnny.
Luca followed and wrapped his arms around me
from behind, chin in the crook of my neck.
“Gia.
“Mm?”
“If I hadn’t lost my memory back then – if I’d
always remembered you –”
“No ‘ifs,” I said, putting the pot on the stove. “You‘
remember now. That’s enough.”
He held me tighter. He didn’t speak for a long time.
I saw it on the news the day they arrested
Bianchi’s cousin. The charges piled up –
smuggling, threats, illegal weapons. A reporter’s
camera caught his daughter being led away by a
social worker. The little girl was crying, but she
held onto a stuffed animal.
I turned off the TV and went to pick up Johnny.
Luca’s car was already at the preschool gate. He
leaned against the door, suit jacket over his arm,
shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows. The setting sun
lit his silhouette gold. When he saw us, he smiled.
“Dad!” Johnny ran to him. Luca scooped him up
with one arm.
I walked closer and noticed a paper bag in his
other hand.
“What’s that?”
“The enrollment form for your pottery class.” He
handed it to me. “You said you wanted to learn
wheel throwing. I signed you up for the advanced
class. Same teacher, but the schedule changed – Tuesday and Thursday mornings. Matteo will drive
you.”
I opened the bag. Inside was a hand–drawn card in Johnny’s wobbly handwriting: [You got this, Mom!]
“And you?” I asked. “Don’t you have meetings on Tuesday and Thursday mornings?”
“Canceled them.” He said it like it was nothing. “I’ll
come with you. You learn inside. I’ll handle papers
outside. We’ll pick up Johnny together and have
lunch.”
I looked at him, suddenly struck by the memory of
myself years ago, dry–heaving by the airport boarding gate. Back then, I thought my life was
set in stone: just me and my child, weathering the
years alone.
“Luca.”
“Yeah?”
“Your hide–and–seek skills really improved.” I
smiled. “But you don’t have to chase me anymore.
I’m not running.”
He blinked, then laughed. Johnny didn’t.
understand, but he laughed too.
The setting sun stretched three long shadows
across the ground, tangled together.
That night, after Johnny fell asleep, Luca took a
box out of the study.
Silver–gray. Small. Inside was a bracelet – not the
tracker from before, but simpler. Engraved inside:
Trovarti è la mia fortuna.
“New?” I asked.
“Not a tracker,” he said. “Just an ordinary bracelet.
But if you want, I can have a micro–chip installed –
tiny. Only I would see the signal.”
I picked it up, turning it in the light. Silver–gray, just
like the old one.
“You’re afraid I’ll disappear again?”
“Yes.” He admitted it without hesitation. “But I’m
more afraid of you feeling trapped. So it’s optional.
Wear it if you want –”
I held out my wrist.
He looked at me.
“Put it on,” I said. “I’m not planning to go anywhere
you can’t find me anyway.”
He fastened the clasp gently, like he was handling
something fragile. Then he kissed the bracelet,
and then the inside of my wrist.
“Gia.”
“Mm?”
“If you’re still this slow in our next life,” he said, “I’ll
chase you again. Longer this time – so you’ll
know sooner that I’m not just messing around.”
I tilted my head, thinking. “Then in our next life, I’ll
run a little faster. Give you a real run for your
money.”
He laughed, pulling me into his arms.
Wind blew outside. City lights glittered in the
distance. Upstairs, Johnny turned over and
mumbled, “Good night, Dad.”
Luca answered softly and kissed my forehead.
“Good night,” he said. “My greatest fortune.”
