Chapter 10 - Matteo Came to Visit Me Without Asking Permission From the Family.
Matteo visited prison in my second year.
Not arranged through family.
Not approved by organization.
He filled out a visitor form like everyone else.
That alone made me smile.
When he entered, he wore jeans and a dark sweater.
No cane now, though limp remained.
We sat across plastic table.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then:
“You look terrible.”
Of course.
“That is apparently how people greet me now.”
“Good.”
We smiled.
Then he became serious.
“Anna and Lily are okay.”
I nodded.
“Good.”
“Lily asked if she can write more.”
“Anna?”
“Fine with it.”
“Then yes.”
There.
No bypass.
Then Matteo said:
“She calls me Dad sometimes by mistake.”
I froze.
“What?”
He laughed.
“Not because I am.”
Good.
“She hears other kids say it. Then corrects to Uncle Matt.”
“How do you feel?”
“Terrified.”
Good.
“Do you want to be her father?”
“No.”
Immediate.
“I want to be one reliable adult.”
There.
The phrase echoed Rebecca from another life? Not relevant. Still universal.
“Anna?”
“She is dating someone.”
I raised eyebrow.
Matteo glared.
“Do not.”
“What?”
“Make face.”
“I made no face.”
“You made older-brother face.”
Good.
“Is he good?”
“Not our decision.”
There.
I laughed.
“You really changed.”
“So did you.”
Maybe.
Then:
“What happens after release?”
“I don’t know.”
“Come work with me.”
My body went still.
“What do you do?”
“Independent logistics compliance.”
I stared.
“That sounds fake.”
“It mostly is paperwork.”
“Exactly.”
He smiled.
Then corrected:
“No. That was instinct. You should not come work with me.”
Good.
We both laughed.
Old family gravity.
Pull everyone close.
Make work equal relationship.
No.
“What do you want?”
Matteo asked.
I thought.
“Something where my name does not decide room before I enter.”
“Impossible.”
“Maybe outside Chicago.”
“There are other cities.”
Good.
“And you?”
“I’m staying Midwest but not Chicago.”
No exact address.
Fine.
“Do you want relationship?”
The question was blunt.
“Yes.”
I said.
“Slow.”
“Good.”
“No family business.”
“There is no family business.”
I looked.
“You know what I mean.”
“Yes.”
Then we set rules like two men who had learned too late that love without boundaries becomes pressure.
No surprise visits.
No asking for favors involving old contacts.
No hiding legal problems that affect the other.
No using Lily as messenger.
No asking Anna for information she did not volunteer.
Good.
Ridiculous.
Necessary.
Then Matteo said:
“I need to tell you something about Dad.”
My chest tightened.
“Another secret?”
“Not exactly.”
He had found a letter Antonio wrote but never sent.
To me.
Stored with Hale Sr.’s legal archives.
Matteo brought a copy? Prison rules maybe not directly; lawyer delivered later. He summarized first.
Our father had known he was dying when he gave me ring.
He wrote:
Adrian believes loyalty means staying. Matteo believes freedom means leaving. Both boys are wrong if they think family survives either without consequence.
Not apology.
Then:
If Adrian learns the truth about Matteo, he will destroy what I built to get him back.
My father knew me.
That hurt.
He expected violence.
He expected love to become control.
Then final:
So Adrian must believe Matteo dead until there is no road back.
I stared.
“He thought he was protecting me?”
Matteo shook head.
“He was protecting what he built.”
Right.
Do not sentimentalize.
Our father had chosen organization over sons.
Maybe loved us.
Still chose.
Both.
“What do you want me to do with letter?”
“Nothing.”
Good.
“I thought you should know.”
Information.
Not command.
I nodded.
Then:
“I hate him.”
Matteo looked.
“So do I sometimes.”
“Do you love him?”
“Yes.”
There.
Again.
Humans annoying.
Then Matteo said:
“Lily asked why families have so many secrets.”
“What did you say?”
“That adults are cowards.”
Fair.
“And?”
“That secrets can keep someone safe for a little while and hurt them for a long time.”
Good.
Anna’s disappearance.
His fake death.
My father’s funeral.
All.
Then he told me Lily had started therapy.
She sometimes panicked when Anna was ten minutes late.
Expected disappearance.
Consequences.
“Does she blame me?”
“No.”
“Should she?”
“Stop.”
Good.
“She does not need an adult handing her extra guilt assignments.”
Right.
I nodded.
Then:
“Can I do anything?”
“Write when she writes.”
There.
Simple.
“Do not make every letter about safety.”
“What should I write?”
“Oranges.”
I laughed.
Good.
So I did.
My letters became boring.
Prison garden had terrible tomatoes.
Food service overcooked pasta.
A gull stole someone’s sandwich in yard.
Lily wrote back about school.
Spelling test.
Rabbit’s new ear.
A classmate named Ava who cheated at tag.
Normal.
The relationship became smaller.
Healthier.
No black ring.
No emergency.
Just mail.
Then release date approached.
My lawyers arranged housing away from Chicago.
A townhouse near Milwaukee? Too close Matteo maybe. Maybe Madison? Fine.
I chose Madison because no family property there.
Bought? Could rent first. Good.
I rented an apartment under my real name.
No guards inside.
Security system normal.
My wealth remained.
I did not pretend ordinary financially.
But I could choose less fortress.
I planned part-time work with a legitimate food-distribution nonprofit? Again could be too neat. Maybe consulting on compliance under independent firm not Matteo's. Good.
An outside logistics company, no family ties, hired me as part-time risk consultant only after background disclosure and board approval. They wanted my experience? Could feel like reward. Better not emphasize.
I could simply not work immediately.
Therapy.
Community service.
Legal obligations.
Enough.
Before Matteo left visitation, he stood.
I did too.
Glass? Contact visit, could hug perhaps. We hugged briefly.
Then he said:
“You know what I’m glad about?”
“What?”
“Lily doesn’t need the ring anymore.”
There.
Neither did we.
Release also changed the way old associates approached me.
Some wanted meetings.
I declined most.
One, Enzo Rinaldi, arrived at my apartment lobby without appointment.
Security called.
Old instinct said:
Send him up.
Instead:
“No.”
Enzo called my phone.
“You afraid?”
“No.”
“Then why won’t you see me?”
“Because you showed up without asking.”
Silence.
Such a small sentence.
Once, people had entered each other’s lives through leverage, obligation, and fear.
Now:
Ask.
He laughed.
“You really are done.”
“With surprise visits.”
I hung up.
He did not return.
That night, I thought about Lily walking unannounced onto my estate.
The only person who ever broke that rule and changed it.
Not because children should be exceptions to security.
Because her arrival exposed how many adults around me had lost the right to speak plainly.
Years later, my apartment had no private drive.
No gate long enough for fear to build.
Visitors buzzed downstairs.
If I wanted them, I pressed a button.
If not, I did not.
Ordinary consent built into architecture.
I liked that more than I expected.
After release, I also met Daniel Price’s sister once.
Marlene had asked for no contact during the criminal case.
Years later, she changed her mind.
We met at the cemetery after Daniel’s grave marker had finally been corrected.
For six years, his remains had rested under Matteo’s name.
Now:
DANIEL PRICE.
His own dates.
His own family.
Marlene stood beside me.
“You carried the wrong coffin.”
“Yes.”
“And we had none.”
My throat tightened.
“Yes.”
She looked at the stone.
“I don’t want an apology today.”
“Okay.”
“I wanted you to see his name.”
There.
So I looked.
That was all.
No handshake.
No forgiveness.
Before she left, she said:
“Your brother got his life back.”
“Yes.”
“Mine didn’t.”
“No.”
Good.
The truth did not become balanced just because the conspiracy was exposed.
Some losses remained losses.
I stayed after she left until rain started.
Then I went home.
The next time Lily asked about Matteo’s fake funeral, I told her only the age-appropriate part:
“Another man’s family was hurt by that lie too.”
She nodded.
No heroic family secret.
No DeLuca-centered tragedy.
Daniel Price’s name belonged in the story because his life had been used to hold ours together.
When release came closer, Matteo and I started speaking by phone once a month.
Not every day.
Not to recover lost years at impossible speed.
Sometimes we talked seven minutes.
Sometimes forty.
Once we argued about our mother’s lasagna recipe and hung up annoyed.
I treasured that argument more than any emotional reconciliation.
Ordinary conflict meant neither of us had to disappear to survive disagreement.
That was new for DeLucas.
By the end of my sentence, I understood something else: losing status had not made me smaller. It had only removed the parts of my identity that depended on other people stepping aside.
The first holiday after prison, Teresa mailed me a photograph of the old estate entrance after the sale. The new owners had removed the DeLuca crest from the gate. For a moment I felt angry. Then relieved. A gate was a gate again. A house was a house. Symbols only held power while people agreed to keep feeding them meaning.
It was enough to begin again without pretending the beginning erased anything.
May you like
That mattered.
That was enough.
