Epilogue 02
Almost three years later
April, New York
Dad
Colin
“What is the long-term viability of this model?” I ask. “And how do you intend to generate a meaningful return on the capital you’re asking us to invest?”
My tone remains professional. I don’t need to raise it for the skepticism to land.
He responds, rolling into a pitch that’s been rehearsed down to the cadence. And mostly unconvincing. I let him speak for another ten minutes without interruption.
When he finishes, the board and I move through a handful of procedural questions, nothing that reveals our position or intent. Then we thank him for his time and assure him we’ll be in touch.
As soon as the door closes behind him, Amarildo turns to me. “That guy should be working for NASA with those numbers.”
I give a dry laugh. “The concept itself is sound,” I say, gathering my things and sliding them into my briefcase. “Innovative, even. But the execution is too immature. We can finance it—but his equity will need to be adjusted significantly from what he’s asking.”
I exchange a few more words with the partners, then check my Rolex. I say my goodbyes and leave, knowing that tomorrow we’ll go over all the week’s proposals.
I hear the click of heels behind me in the corridor and turn. Clementine—Louis’s niece—is approaching, a playful smile already in place.
“I thought I might invite you for a drink,” she says. “Since I’m just a temp, I assume the non-fraternization rule doesn’t apply to me. Right?”
There’s no denying it: she’s striking. Early thirties. She’s beautiful in a way that turns heads without effort: brown skin, striking dark eyes, long legs, generous curves.
And yet, I feel nothing.
I’ve learned my lesson about getting involved with anyone at work, temporary or otherwise. And certainly not the relative of a board member.
“Clementine,” I say evenly, already turning away, “you’re a beautiful young woman. I’m sure there are plenty of men your age who would welcome that invitation. And the rule does apply to temporary staff. I made sure of that myself when I drafted the contract.”
As soon as the elevator opens and I step inside, I have just enough time to stop by the penthouse, shower, change, then pick up Alicia from her mother’s place.
The last few years have brought real progress in my relationship with my children. And, unexpectedly, with their mother.
At the start of her new relationship, I behaved like a bastard. I hoped it would fail. I couldn’t stand the idea of another man claiming space in my children’s lives, and it cut deeper than I admitted to watch the woman I once planned a whole life with fall in love with someone else.
But it didn’t fail. And today, I can say wholeheartedly that I’m glad Ceci found happiness again. After everything I put her through, she deserves it.
And despite my best efforts to push those thoughts away, a part of me will always wonder what could have happened had I been the man to make her happy again.
As I step through the glass doors, I glance back at the building rising behind me. The venture capital firm occupies two full floors of a Manhattan high-rise.
ECA Innovation Fund.
What most people assume stands for Engineered Capital Alliance is merely a name. To me, it carries the initials of the three people who matter most.
Ethan. Ceci. Alicia.
No one knows that. Not even them.
The idea to create a firm focused on financing start-ups came, ironically, from Mark, just over two years ago. A careless remark at Ethan’s birthday. He said the only thing I was truly good at was “choosing where to put my money,” and that I should start using that particular talent.
He wasn’t wrong. Montgomery Clifford became what it was because I bled for it.
And I built something new the same way. Sleepless nights.
Methodical planning. Finding investors willing to trust my judgment rather than judge my past. Sixteen months in, the firm is growing faster than projected.
Diverse partnerships, a strong pipeline, a portfolio that speaks for itself.
Naturally, Mark never lets me forget he considers himself my “muse.”
At least now, I have leverage. I meet every provocation by lingering half a second too long when I kiss his wife’s hand, smiling when I address her. Every time, I make it last just long enough to see him bristle.
I shake my head, a laugh escaping, and head toward my car.
The door opens before I can reach the bell, and something small collides with my leg.
I bend and find Stella laughing.
When I lift her into my arms, my chest tightens the way it always does. She’s a carbon copy of her mother. Exactly how I once hoped Alicia would be, in the moment when we found out we were having a girl.
“You’re going to give me gray hair,” Ceci says, and I lift my gaze to hers. “I barely opened the door and she shot out like a bullet.”
I pass Stella back to her. Ceci takes her with a playful smile.
She’s as beautiful as ever. Wearing a long green summer dress, her red hair falling loosely over her shoulders. Time has been kind to her, refining rather than erasing, revealing a deeper beauty each time I see her.
As Ceci gently scolds Stella about the dangers of running like that, the girl pulls on a serious expression.
Her eyes, however, gleam with mischief.
“Ali dada! Papà!”
The shrill little voice draws my attention downward. Alessio stands there, pointing at me, one small hand twisted in the fabric of his mother’s dress.
“Yes, sweetheart—that’s Alicia’s dad,” Ceci says softly, smoothing his light brown hair. Where Stella is her mother’s mirror, Alessio is a careful balance, his parents’ features blended with greenish eyes.
She looks back at me. “Do you want to come in, Colin? Alicia’s just finishing up. We were about to head next door.”
I don’t have time to answer. Alessio darts past me, and by the time I turn, thinking of stopping him from going on the road, he’s already throwing himself into his father’s arms. Alexander catches him mid-air, laughing, murmuring something in Italian that makes the boy grin even wider.
Ceci walks past me and waits at the top of the porch steps. Alexander joins her, presses a kiss to her forehead. I look away, knowing the sequence by heart. A kiss to the tip of her nose, then to her lips, sealing them inside a private world of their own making. I’ve witnessed it often enough.
They murmur between themselves, and I find the potted plant on the porch worthy of close inspection, until Ceci says something in Italian, her tone edged with complaint, followed by a sigh.
I turn back just in time to see Alexander’s hand settle on her lower belly. Possessive. Protective. Then he takes Stella from her arms, balancing both children with ease, one on each side.
“Alexander, she’s not that heavy,” Ceci says in English, exasperated. “You’re being dramatic and overprotective again.”
“I take care of what’s mine, Signora Santoro,” he says with a smile, brushing his hand over her belly once more before stepping back. His wedding band catches the late afternoon light.
I hate when he calls her that. But what hurts more is what they don’t need to say out loud. She’s pregnant again.
The first time I found out, almost three years ago, was the first time I drank in nearly two years. The second was the day she got married.
I close my eyes briefly, fighting the memory that insists on surfacing.
“I want at least four children.”
“What?” I’d said, covering her body with mine, my gaze locked on those blue eyes. “No. One child is fine. Two at most.”
“But you know I want a big family. We’ve talked about this...” Ceci had said, looking at me with insistence.
“And we’ll be four,” I replied, kissing her lips, then her neck. “Me. You. And two little terrors. Preferably a girl just like you.”
I’d smiled then… arrogant, careless. “If we fill the house with kids, I won’t even get to enjoy you like this.”
The memory is vivid, unkind in its clarity. One of the first days of our honeymoon. I’d blamed the cold to keep her in bed longer, blind to the fact that what she was asking for wasn’t a whim. It was a truth that never changed.
In the end, he gave her everything. The big family she dreamed of. More than four children. A life she once asked me for.
“Dad!”
Alicia’s voice cuts through the memory, pulling me back to the present.
I force a smile for my daughter. Alicia hugs me, then stretches up to kiss my cheek.
“Happy birthday again, old man,” she says with a grin. “Your hair’s getting whiter, huh?”
I narrow my eyes at her. “Thank you, princess.”
“Happy birthday, Colin,” Ceci says.
I turn to find her standing at the top of the stairs, Alexander one step below, both children still balanced in his arms like hard-earned trophies.
“Happy birthday, Colin,” Alexander adds, his tone impersonal.
We haven’t become friends. We never will. But we dropped the last names a while ago. I’ll continue not liking him, and I know the feeling is mutual. But, for my kids, I swallow my pride.
“Thank you, Cecily. Alexander,” I say, acknowledging them both with a brief nod before turning to Alicia. “Shall we?”
She nods and steps toward her mother, pressing a kiss to Ceci’s cheek. She does the same with her siblings, then with Alexander, who sets the children down. Alessio laces his fingers with Stella’s—who is holding Ceci’s hand—and together they start down the steps.
Alexander rests a hand on Alicia’s shoulder.
“If you come back and we’re not home, just go over to Cesare’s, okay?”
“Sì, papà,” [LXXXII]she replies easily. “I’m not a little girl anymore. I can stay home alone too.”
Alexander laughs and shakes his head.
Whenever she calls him that—papà—something tightens in my chest. I know she doesn’t mean to hurt me. It’s just her new reality now. But it always stings. There was a time when that title belonged only to me.
I offer them one last nod, a small wave to the children, and follow Alicia toward my car.