Chapter 7 - FIVE PERCENT
I hired a lawyer named Naomi Chen.
No Moretti ties.
No Grayson ties.
No patience.
I liked her immediately.
She read the trust for three hours.
Then said:
“This is either the strangest estate planning I’ve seen or the most honest.”
“Honest?”
“It admits everyone expected everyone else to betray them.”
Fair.
The five-percent interest was real.
Voting rights vested at thirty or earlier if fraud materially threatened the underlying property.
Vincent’s actions qualified.
Meaning I had voting rights now.
Not symbolic.
Real.
In a family holding company worth enough money to make my hands cold.
I looked at Naomi.
“I don’t want to be in the Mafia.”
She took off her glasses.
“Good.”
“Does five percent make me—”
“No.”
“Legally?”
“No.”
“Practically?”
“You own a minority interest in a holding company with legitimate and potentially illegitimate historical assets. Your rights can be exercised through counsel.”
“Can I sell?”
“Yes.”
“To Luca?”
“Yes.”
“Should I?”
“That is not my decision.”
Good lawyer.
“What would you do?”
“Not my decision.”
Annoying good lawyer.
I kept it.
Temporarily.
Not because I wanted power.
Because selling quickly would mean reacting to fear.
Ryan had taught me how much of my life had been shaped by making choices to calm men.
I wanted time.
Luca did not ask.
That mattered.
Our second date happened.
Then third.
Then fifth.
No dramatic declarations.
No helicopters.
No private islands.
We went to a bookstore.
He bought four history books and one cookbook.
I mocked him.
He cooked dinner.
The pasta was excellent.
I apologized.
Partially.
We kissed often.
Slowly.
He asked before anything changed.
Sometimes with words.
Sometimes by stopping and waiting.
I learned his silence too.
Not all silence was control.
Some was attention.
One Saturday, he came to the reading-room site in jeans.
Actual jeans.
The construction crew nearly stopped working.
I handed him a tape measure.
“What is this?”
“A test.”
“Of?”
“Useful adulthood.”
He looked offended.
I pointed toward a bench opening.
“Measure.”
He did.
Wrong end.
I laughed.
“You run construction companies.”
“I hire people.”
“That is becoming obvious.”
He learned.
Badly.
Children from the nonprofit visited the site that afternoon.
One girl asked if Luca was my husband.
I almost choked.
Luca said:
“No.”
Good.
The child asked, “Boyfriend?”
Luca looked at me.
I said, “Yes.”
His face changed.
Tiny.
Happy.
Dangerously attractive.
The girl lost interest immediately.
Children had healthier priorities.
Then legal trouble returned.
Vincent’s attorney challenged my trust rights.
Claimed Thomas signed under duress.
Naomi laughed.
Then filed fifty pages.
Salvatore declined to join the challenge.
That surprised Luca.
“Father hates uncertainty.”
“Maybe he likes Vincent less.”
“Possible.”
Gabriel provided testimony supporting Thomas.
Ryan agreed too.
His cooperation agreement required it.
I did not speak to him.
Not yet.
Then Vincent made another move.
He leaked my minority ownership to press.
Headline:
MAFIA BOSS’S NEW GIRLFRIEND SECRETLY OWNS PIECE OF MORETTI EMPIRE.
I stared at my phone.
Claire said:
“Well.”
“That is one word.”
The article implied romance explained my interest.
That Luca gave it to me.
That I benefited from criminal wealth.
My design firm received angry emails.
The nonprofit board asked questions.
This hurt differently from Ryan’s jokes.
Because work mattered.
Reputation mattered.
I called Luca.
Not for rescue.
Information.
He answered.
“I saw.”
“What do you suggest?”
“Public statement.”
“From who?”
“You.”
“Not you?”
“No.”
Good.
“What would yours say?”
“That the interest predates our relationship by twenty-five years.”
“Anything else?”
“That you hired independent counsel and have made no transfer.”
“Good.”
“Do you want our communications team?”
“No.”
“Okay.”
Claire helped me draft my own statement.
Naomi reviewed legal language.
I published.
Then I went to the nonprofit board.
In person.
“I did not know about the trust when I accepted this project.”
Maya Patel nodded.
“We believe you.”
“I will recuse myself from any owner-side decision affecting our lease.”
“Good.”
“I remain project designer if you want me.”
Maya looked around the board.
Then:
“We do.”
Relief nearly knocked me over.
No man had saved that.
I had.
Luca texted afterward:
Proud—
Then deleted it before sending.
I knew because typing bubble disappeared.
A new message came:
You handled that well.
I smiled.
Better.
That night, I went to his apartment.
First time.
Manhattan penthouse.
Predictable.
Beautiful.
Too gray.
“You need color.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“My home is not a project.”
“Everything is a project.”
He looked terrified.
Good.
We ate takeout on the kitchen island.
Then I asked:
“How many people have you hurt?”
The question came without warning.
He put down his fork.
“Physically?”
“Yes.”
“Many.”
No lie.
“Killed?”
Silence.
Then:
“Yes.”
My chest tightened.
“How many?”
“I don’t keep a number.”
“Why?”
“Because I didn’t want to become someone who counted.”
“That does not sound better.”
“I know.”
“Were they all criminals?”
“No.”
There.
I stopped breathing.
“Explain.”
“One man.”
“Who?”
“Driver.”
“Whose?”
“Enemy crew.”
“What happened?”
“He was twenty-two. He drove men who ambushed Lorenzo and me.”
“And?”
“I shot at the car.”
My stomach tightened.
“He died.”
“Yes.”
“Did he shoot at you?”
“No.”
“Did you know that then?”
“Yes.”
I looked away.
Luca’s voice stayed low.
“I told myself he chose the car.”
“That sounds like something Ryan would say.”
His face changed.
I did not take it back.
“Control by association.”
“Yes.”
“What happened after?”
“Nothing.”
“No charges?”
“No.”
“Family handled it.”
Of course.
“Do you regret it?”
“Yes.”
“Enough to confess?”
Silence.
There.
Hard question.
“I have discussed it with counsel.”
“That is not the question.”
“No.”
Honest.
Terrible.
“Why?”
“Statute issues aside, confession could implicate others, reopen cases, destabilize current cooperation.”
“That sounds like lawyer language.”
“It is.”
“What do you think?”
He looked at me.
“I think I killed a man who did not need to die.”
Silence.
I felt sick.
I also appreciated the truth.
Both.
“Does his family know?”
“No.”
“Name?”
“Luis Ortega.”
I remembered it.
“Would you tell them?”
“If counsel can arrange safely.”
“Not because of me.”
“No.”
“Because?”
“Because I should have years ago.”
I stood.
“I need to go.”
He stood too.
“Okay.”
No protest.
No “we can work through this.”
No hand on my arm.
Good.
At the door, he said:
“Emily.”
I turned.
“You can decide this changes what you want with me.”
“I know.”
“I won’t punish you.”
“That should be assumed.”
“Yes.”
“Still worth saying.”
I nodded.
Then left.
I did not see him for six days.
He did not call repeatedly.
One message on day two:
I’m here if you want to talk.
Nothing else.
On day six, I called.
“Coffee.”
“When?”
“Now.”
“I’ll come.”
“No. Public place.”
“Okay.”
We met.
I told him:
“I’m not okay with what you did.”
“I know.”
“I don’t know if I can build a life with someone who has killed people.”
“I understand.”
“I also know people are more than their worst act.”
He said nothing.
Good.
“I need to see what you do now.”
He nodded.
“That is fair.”
“And I am not your moral rehabilitation project.”
“No.”
“You don’t become good to keep me.”
“No.”
“Why change?”
He looked at his coffee.
“Because I am tired of being the kind of man who needs a woman to explain why ownership is not love.”
That answer stayed with me.
Not perfect.
Real.
We kept dating.
Slowly.
Three months later, Luca’s attorney arranged contact with Luis Ortega’s mother.
Not because I asked again.
Luca told her what happened.
Privately.
Through counsel.
He offered compensation.
She refused at first.
Then accepted into a scholarship fund in Luis’s name with no Moretti branding.
She did not forgive him.
He did not ask.
When he told me, I cried.
Not because it fixed anything.
Because accountability without guaranteed forgiveness was the first kind I trusted.
Then Naomi called.
“The trust challenge is over.”
“What?”
“Vincent withdrew.”
“Why?”
“Plea negotiation.”
My stomach dropped.
“He’s pleading guilty?”
“To several financial counts and intimidation. More serious charges remain contested.”
“And my five percent?”
“Confirmed.”
I looked at the reading-room plans on my desk.
“What happens if I sell?”
“You get a lot of money.”
“How much?”
She told me.
I sat.
Then laughed.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“No, that is a reaction.”
I looked around the design studio.
Fabric samples.
Cheap coffee.
My old sneakers under the desk.
Ryan had told me I had a good life because of him.
Turns out millions had been quietly attached to my name before I ever met him.
The irony was almost offensive.
“What are you going to do?” Naomi asked.
I smiled.
“Something Ryan would hate.”
I kept the voting rights.
And announced I would direct all distributions from the stake into an independent community-design foundation.
Not Moretti.
Not Hart.
No family name.
Its first grant?
Public reading rooms.
Luca found out from the press.
He called.
“You could have told me.”
“I could have.”
“You didn’t.”
“No.”
Pause.
Then:
“Good.”
I smiled.
“Good?”
“You made the decision without checking whether I approved.”
That was exactly why.
“Yes.”
May you like
He laughed softly.
“I’m learning too.”
