Chapter 40
SAVANNAH
Dante takes his first steps on a Tuesday afternoon in November.
I’m sitting on the floor of the living room, arms outstretched, watching him wobble on uncertain legs. He’s been pulling himself up on furniture for weeks, cruising along the couch with one hand gripping the cushions. But this is different.
This is him letting go.
“Come on, baby,” I say, keeping my voice encouraging. “Come to Mama.”
He takes one step. Two. His face is serious with concentration, tongue poking out between his lips. Three steps. Four.
Then he falls forward into my arms, laughing.
“You did it!” I squeeze him tight. “You walked! Oh my God, you walked!”
He babbles something that might be “Mama” or might just be sounds. At ten months old, his vocabulary consists of maybe five words, none of them particularly clear.
But he walked.
And Ledger wasn’t here to see it.
I pull out my phone and record a video of Dante’s next attempt. He makes it six steps this time before tumbling onto his padded bottom. I send the video to Ledger’s prison email account, knowing he won’t see it until tomorrow during his computer access time.
Dante walked today. First steps. Wish you were here.
I don’t mention how much it hurt to watch alone or mention the way my chest ached when I realized Ledger missed this milestone. He has enough guilt without me adding to it.
The phone rings. Alexi.
“Hey,” I answer. “What’s up?”
“Just checking in. How’s Dante?”
“He walked. Just now. Six steps.”
“That’s amazing! Send me the video.”
“Sure thing.” I look at Dante, who’s crawling toward his toy basket. “How are things at the office?”
“Good. The Chicago hotel acquisition is moving forward. The Rome property is finally showing profit. And the tech investment Ledger made three years ago just paid out dividends.”
“That’s great.”
“You sound tired.”
“I am tired. Dante was up three times last night. I think he’s teething again.”
“Want me to come over? Elena and I can watch him for a few hours so you can nap.”
“No, it’s fine. You have work.”
“Savannah, you’re allowed to ask for help.”
“I know. I just—” I watch Dante pull himself up on the coffee table. “I’m supposed to be able to do this. Be strong. Hold everything together while Ledger’s gone.”
“You are holding everything together. But that doesn’t mean you have to do it alone.” His voice is gentle. “We’re family. Let us help.”
“Okay. Maybe tomorrow? If you’re free?”
“We’ll be there at ten. Elena loves spending time with Dante anyway.”
After we hang up, I sit on the floor watching my son explore his world with fearless curiosity. He’s so much like Ledger—dark hair, determined expression, complete confidence that he can conquer anything.
I miss my husband so much it physically hurts sometimes.
Dante’s first birthday party is small. Just me, Alexi, Elena, and Marie. We hang decorations in the living room—balloons, streamers, and a banner that says Happy Birthday, Dante.
I make a cake. Chocolate with vanilla frosting. Dante’s favorite, though, at one year old, his favorite is really just anything with sugar.
We sing Happy Birthday. Dante stares at the single candle on his cake, mesmerized by the flame. When I blow it out for him, he cries, upset that the pretty light disappeared.
“Make a wish,” Elena says, cutting slices for everyone.
I already made my wish. The same one I’ve been making for the past year.
That Ledger comes home safe. That our family stays whole.
After the cake, Dante opens presents. A stuffed elephant from Alexi. Books from Elena. A wooden train set from Marie. He’s more interested in the wrapping paper than the actual gifts, tearing the colorful sheets into smaller and smaller pieces.
“He’s happy,” Alexi says, watching Dante laugh as paper flies everywhere.
“He is. But Ledger should be here.”
“I know.”
“Did you visit him this week?” I ask.
“Yeah. Wednesday. He’s doing okay. Says the time is going by faster than he expected. Keeps asking about you and Dante.”
“We’re visiting on Saturday. It’s been two weeks.”
“He misses you both. You can see it in his eyes.” Alexi helps me clean up wrapping paper. “But he’s proud of you. Keeps talking about how strong you are. How well you’re running things.”
“I’m not running anything. You’re running the businesses. I’m just trying to keep Dante alive and the house from falling apart.”
“You’re doing more than that. The legitimate businesses are thriving. You’ve been sitting in on board meetings, making decisions, and learning the operations. Dad notices. We all do.”
“I’m just trying to hold his place until he gets back.”
“You’re not holding his place. You’re building your own.” Alexi looks at me seriously. “When Dad comes home, he’s going to have a partner. Not just a wife who waited for him. An actual business partner who understands the empire.”
“I don’t know if that’s what he wants.”
“It’s exactly what he wants. Trust me.”
That night, after everyone leaves and Dante is asleep, I sit in the nursery and call Ledger. The prison allows one fifteen-minute phone call per week.
“Happy birthday to our boy,” he says when he answers.
“He had a good day. Cake, presents, lots of attention.”
“Did he like the train set?”
“Loved the wrapping paper more than the train. Typical one-year-old.”
Ledger laughs, and the sound makes my chest ache. “I wish I were there.”
“I know. Me too.”
“One more year,” I say. “One more year and you come home.”
“One more year.”
We talk until the automated voice announces that our time is up. Then I hang up and sit in the darkness, listening to Dante breathe through the baby monitor.
One more year.
I can do one more year.
On release day, I wake up at 5:00 AM even though I don’t need to leave for another three hours.
Today is the day. Two years. Seven hundred and thirty days. Seventeen thousand, five hundred and twenty hours.
But who’s counting?
I shower and dress carefully. Nothing too formal, but nice. A dress Ledger bought me before everything happened. Heels I can actually walk in while carrying a toddler. Makeup to hide the dark circles that come from two years of single parenting.
Dante wakes at six, babbling in his crib. When I go into his room, he’s standing up, gripping the rail, bouncing on his toes.
“Dada,” he says. It’s his newest word, learned from pictures I’ve shown him every single day for two years. “Dada today.”
“Yes, baby. Dada today. We’re going to see Dada.”
I dress him in the outfit I bought specifically for this—khaki pants and a button-down shirt that makes him look impossibly grown up. At two years old, he’s tall for his age, all lean limbs and boundless energy.
He looks like Ledger.
Alexi and Elena arrive at seven thirty. Elena is carrying a basket of something that smells like fresh muffins. “Thought you might not have eaten,” she says.
“I haven’t. Too nervous.”
“He’s going to be so happy to see you both.” She looks at Dante, who’s examining the muffins with intense focus. “And this little guy has gotten so big.”
“He’s not little anymore. He’s a full toddler now. Running everywhere. Talking constantly. Into everything.”
“Sounds exhausting.”
“It is. But it’s also amazing.” I grab my purse. “We should go. I don’t want to be late.”
The drive to the federal facility takes forty minutes. Dante chatters the entire time from his car seat, pointing at things outside the window and naming them with his limited vocabulary. “Car. Tree. Bird. Dog.”
“That’s right, buddy,” Alexi says from the driver’s seat. “Very good.”
“Dada?”
“Yes. We’re going to see Dada.”
The facility looks like a college campus more than a prison. Low buildings. Manicured lawns. Fences, but not the towering razor-wire kind. This is minimum security, designed for white-collar criminals and people who don’t pose a flight risk.
People like Ledger.
We park in the visitor lot and walk toward the release area. There are other families waiting—wives, children, parents. All of us here to reclaim someone we lost to the system.
At exactly 9:00 AM, the doors open.
And prisoners start walking out.
I scan each face, looking for the one I’ve been dreaming about for two years. Older men. Younger men. Men who look defeated. Men who look relieved.
And then I see him.
Ledger.
He looks the same but different. His hair is longer, touched with more gray at the temples. He’s leaner, like prison food didn’t agree with him. There are lines on his face that weren’t there before, carved by stress and time apart.
But his eyes—when they find mine across the parking lot—his eyes are exactly the same.
“Ledger!” I’m running before I can think, Dante bouncing in my arms.
He’s running too, closing the distance between us in seconds. And then his arms are around us both, holding us so tight I can barely breathe.
“Savannah.” He says my name like a prayer. “God, Savannah.”
“You’re here. You’re really here.”
“I’m here. I’m coming home.”
Dante is squished between us.
Ledger pulls back slightly and looks at our son. “Hey, Dante. Hey, buddy. Remember me?”
Dante stares. Then slowly, tentatively, he reaches out one small hand and touches Ledger’s face. “Dada?”
Ledger’s face crumples. “Yeah. Yeah, buddy. I’m Dada.”
And Dante, who doesn’t remember his father, who’s only seen him in pictures and brief prison visits, leans forward and wraps his little arms around Ledger’s neck. “Dada home.”
“Yeah.” Ledger’s crying now, tears streaming down his face. “Dada’s home.”
I’m crying too. We’re all crying—me, Ledger, even Alexi, standing a few feet away watching the reunion.
“Dad.” Alexi steps forward. “Welcome home.”
Ledger pulls him into the embrace, one arm around his oldest son, the other around me and Dante.
Elena hangs back, uncertain. Ledger notices and extends his hand. “Thank you for being there for my family while I was gone.”
“They’re my family too now.”
We walk to the car together, Dante refusing to let go of Ledger’s neck. In the back seat, I sit pressed against my husband’s side while our son babbles at him, telling him stories in his toddler language that only occasionally make sense.
“He talks a lot,” Ledger says, wonder in his voice.
“Constantly. He learned it from me.”
“And he’s so big. When did he get so big?”
“Gradually. Then suddenly. That’s how kids work.”
He looks at me. “You’re beautiful. More beautiful than I remembered.”
“I’m exhausted and running on coffee and toddler chaos.”
“Still beautiful.”
I rest my head on his shoulder and close my eyes. Dante has fallen asleep between us, exhausted from all the excitement. The car hums along the highway, taking us home.