Chapter 9 - THE DAY FAITH QUIT
Faith resigned on a Thursday.
She handed me a white envelope at breakfast.
I looked at it.
“No.”
She folded her arms.
“You have not opened it.”
“I know what it is.”
“Maybe it is a love letter.”
“It says RESIGNATION on the front.”
“I value clarity.”
I looked at her.
Three weeks had passed since Gabriel’s arrest.
Jonah was out of jail after federal prosecutors moved to dismiss the compromised weapons case pending investigation into Pike’s conduct.
Pike himself had been arrested on obstruction, conspiracy, evidence tampering, and weapons-trafficking charges.
Derek Shaw entered a cooperation agreement.
Vincent Morello had resigned from every Carter business and retained counsel.
His future remained uncertain.
So did ours.
Carmine had not returned.
He sent one written statement through Agent Chen.
Twenty-seven pages.
Every lie.
Every omission.
Every detail he could remember.
I read it once.
Then locked it away.
Forgiveness had not arrived.
Neither had the desire for revenge.
That counted as progress.
Faith’s mother was improving.
Slowly.
Some memories returned.
Some never might.
Faith visited every day.
She also stopped being my caretaker in every way except the one printed on payroll.
That was deliberate.
I now had a licensed rehabilitation nurse.
A physical therapist named Marcus Lee who enjoyed telling me “again” more than any man should.
And Dr. Patel had reduced the medication suppressing my motor function.
My right foot moved voluntarily twice.
My left toes once.
Small.
Ridiculous.
Enormous.
Faith watched one session from the doorway.
She cried.
I pretended not to see.
Now she stood in my breakfast room resigning.
“Why?”
“You know why.”
“Say it.”
Her cheeks colored.
“No.”
“Then resignation denied.”
“You cannot deny resignation.”
“I own the company.”
“You do not own me.”
Silence.
There it was.
The sentence I needed.
“No.”
I looked at the envelope.
“I don’t.”
Faith sat across from me.
“I got a job.”
“Where?”
“Northwestern rehab outpatient.”
I stared.
“As what?”
“Patient care coordinator.”
“You are not certified.”
“Administrative care coordinator. I am renewing my medical assistant certification at night.”
Pride moved through me before I could stop it.
“You did this without telling me.”
“Yes.”
“Who helped?”
“Myself.”
“Reference?”
“Mrs. Gable.”
Traitor.
“Salary?”
Faith narrowed her eyes.
“That is none of your business.”
“It is absolutely—”
I stopped.
She smiled.
“Almost.”
I sighed.
“Fine.”
“It is more than here.”
That offended me.
“I can increase—”
She pointed.
“Do not.”
I closed my mouth.
Again.
“I negotiated.”
“Of course you did.”
“And my landlord agreed to a repayment plan.”
I stared.
“You still live there?”
“Until the lease ends.”
“The locks are terrible.”
“I changed them.”
“How?”
“Jonah.”
“That does not reassure me.”
“It should not.”
She smiled.
I looked at the resignation.
“So today?”
“Friday is my last day.”
“You gave one day notice.”
“Your employment contract says at will.”
“You read it?”
“I read everything before signing now.”
Good.
Painfully good.
“What about us?”
The question came out before I planned it.
Faith went still.
“Us?”
“You know what I mean.”
“Maybe I want to hear you say it.”
I looked toward the doorway.
Mrs. Gable immediately disappeared.
Eavesdropping old woman.
I turned back.
“I want to take you to dinner.”
Faith stared.
“That sounded physically painful.”
“It was.”
“Restaurant?”
“Yes.”
“Public?”
“If necessary.”
“No armored convoy?”
“I refuse to negotiate security before coffee.”
She smiled.
“After Friday.”
“Yes.”
“After my final paycheck clears.”
“Yes.”
“After I am no longer living in staff housing.”
“You never lived here.”
“Good point.”
“And after Jonah’s attorney is paid independently.”
I frowned.
“I am not paying his attorney.”
“Federal witness program arranged one.”
“Good.”
“And after my mother’s restitution case has counsel not connected to you.”
“It does.”
“Then maybe.”
I stared.
“Maybe?”
“You are still annoying.”
“You knelt on my floor and told me to breathe.”
“You were in pain.”
“You changed my entire life.”
“That sounds like pressure.”
“Right.”
I exhaled.
“Would you like dinner Saturday?”
Faith smiled.
“Yes.”
That was better.
She stood.
Then looked toward the therapy room.
“You have rehab in twenty minutes.”
“I know.”
“You skipped yesterday.”
“I had lawyers.”
“You have legs.”
“Debatable.”
She frowned.
I corrected.
“Legs with complicated management.”
“Better.”
At rehab, Marcus Lee strapped braces around my knees.
Parallel bars stood in front of me.
I hated them.
They looked childish.
Simple.
Humiliating.
“Today we stand,” he said.
“No.”
Faith, still technically on duty, sat by the wall.
Marcus looked at her.
“Help.”
She shook her head.
“He has to choose.”
I looked at her.
Traitor again.
Marcus said, “We have done transfers. Weight bearing. Electrical stimulation. Your blood pressure is good.”
“I know.”
“You have enough upper-body control.”
“I know.”
“So?”
I stared at the bars.
Standing had become a symbol I no longer trusted.
Six months of doctors measuring worth in inches of movement.
Men looking away when I entered rooms.
My own rage.
Gabriel laughing.
You still cannot stand.
Faith’s voice came quietly.
“You don’t have to prove anything.”
I looked at her.
“That is unhelpful.”
“I mean it.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Because if you want to try, I want to see.”
Not save.
Not push.
See.
I gripped the bars.
Marcus positioned himself.
“On three.”
I hated counting.
“One.”
I tightened my arms.
“Two.”
My legs trembled before I moved.
“Three.”
I pushed.
Pain.
Fire.
Pressure.
Fear.
My body rose.
Not elegantly.
Not fully.
Marcus supported my hips.
The braces locked.
My arms shook.
But for the first time in six months, my head moved higher.
Faith stood too.
Her eyes filled.
“Do not cry.”
“I’ll do what I want.”
Fair.
I lasted four seconds.
Then my knees failed.
Marcus lowered me into the chair.
My chest heaved.
Sweat ran down my face.
I laughed.
Faith laughed too.
“Four seconds,” Marcus said.
“Terrible.”
“Four more than yesterday.”
That shut me up.
Faith walked closer.
“Again?”
I looked at her.
She had asked.
Not ordered.
My choice.
“Yes.”
The second time lasted five.
Friday afternoon, Faith turned in her keys.
Mrs. Gable hugged her.
Jonah picked her up in a borrowed car.
I remained in the foyer.
Faith looked at me.
“Tomorrow. Seven.”
“Yes.”
“Do not send a driver.”
“That is unsafe.”
“Dominic.”
“Fine.”
“No restaurant you own.”
“That eliminates half the city.”
“Try harder.”
I almost smiled.
She stepped closer.
For a second neither of us moved.
Then she kissed my cheek.
Nothing more.
“I don’t work for you anymore.”
“I noticed.”
“Good.”
She left.
I watched through the window as she got into Jonah’s car.
Mrs. Gable appeared beside me.
“She is good for you.”
“Everyone says that.”
“No.”
She looked at me.
“She is good for herself.”
I understood the correction.
That mattered more.
Saturday at seven, I drove myself.
Hand controls.
No convoy.
One security car two blocks back because I was not an idiot.
Faith opened her apartment door wearing a blue dress.
I forgot every sentence I had prepared.
She smiled.
“Breathe.”
I laughed.
Then did exactly what she told me.
Dinner Saturday was at a tiny Italian place on the Northwest Side.
Faith chose it because nobody there knew my name.
That was her claim.
The owner recognized me before we reached the table.
He wisely pretended not to.
Faith noticed.
“He knows.”
“No.”
“He absolutely knows.”
“He has excellent discretion.”
“That means yes.”
We sat near the back.
No guards at the table.
One outside.
Faith checked.
“I said no convoy.”
“One man is not a convoy.”
“That is technically true and spiritually dishonest.”
I ordered wine.
She ordered sparkling water because she had an early shift.
For ten minutes, neither of us talked about Gabriel, Elena, Jonah, my legs, or dead fathers.
It felt unnatural.
Then Faith said, “What do normal people discuss on first dates?”
“I have no idea.”
“Movies?”
“I rarely watch them.”
“Music?”
“I own a club.”
“That was not the question.”
I smiled.
She caught it.
“There.”
“What?”
“You smiled.”
“No.”
“You did.”
“I deny it.”
She laughed.
Then her expression softened.
“Are you scared?”
“Of dinner?”
“Of getting better.”
The question hit.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because if I try and fail, I lose the excuse.”
“What excuse?”
“That my life stopped because my body did.”
Faith said nothing.
I continued.
“If I recover even partly, then I have to admit the six months I spent destroying rooms and humiliating staff were choices.”
“Yes.”
No softness.
No rescue.
Just truth.
“And if I don’t recover?”
“You still have choices.”
I looked at her.
“That is irritating.”
“I know.”
The waiter brought bread.
Faith tore off a piece.
“Your turn.”
“My turn what?”
“To ask something normal.”
I thought.
“What color do you want to paint your next kitchen?”
She blinked.
“That is weirdly domestic.”
“You said normal.”
“Green.”
“Terrible.”
“Then you are never choosing my kitchen.”
I looked at her.
“Noted.”
It was the first future sentence either of us allowed.
Small.
Unplanned.
May you like
Enough.
When dinner ended, Faith paid for her own dessert. I let her. That small choice felt more intimate than any expensive gesture I could have made.
