Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
Leon
Katya entertained Leo and Bastian for almost two full hours.
The boys showed her every toy they own, and she didn’t complain or look bored even once.
I can’t deny that I watched them on the cameras for far longer than would ever be socially acceptable, but I couldn’t help it.
I wanted to make sure they were safe with her, of course.
But in the back of my mind, I had no doubts that they would be.
I wanted to see them interact and bond more than anything. I wanted my instincts confirmed, to know that I made the best decision I could when selecting the woman to be a part of our lives. Katya Luká?ová seems to fit in this house perfectly.
We didn’t have much time for conversation when Leo and Bastian finally gave her up to me.
But we exchanged numbers, email, and further contact information.
Katya assured me that she was okay when I checked in about her fight with her friend, and thanked me for allowing her to spend time with the boys.
Thanked me for it, like it’s an honor.
When it was time for her to leave, I insisted on sending her to the airport with seven armed guards to accompany her.
Her security was split when Chloe left without her, and I wouldn’t risk her safety with anything less than the best looking out for her.
She blushed when I kissed the back of her hand again, and the pink color on her cheeks is still on my mind over an hour later.
In my office, I put the finishing touches on the virtual contract before sending it over to Linus Gabris.
If he approves it, we’ll sign a physical copy in blood, and Katya will officially be my intended.
I have to get a ring for her as soon as possible, which I’ll need to reach out to her mother for advice on.
I can’t exactly ask her best friend about her taste in engagement rings, after all.
Sighing, I pull open my bottom desk drawer and start thumbing through paperwork, wondering if I still have the family jeweler’s contact information stored or if I’ll need to ask Apollo for his number.
A custom piece could take weeks or months for a regular person, but our guy can typically do whatever we need in a matter of days.
A red envelope catches my eye and I frown, not remembering putting it there. Pulling it out carefully, I flip it over and see my name scrawled in white script on the front. I recognize the cursive handwriting and feel my stomach sink.
Ripping it open before I can worry about the safety of doing so, or second guess even wanting to know what’s inside, I pull out a thick bit of folded paper.
Leon,
I’m not sure how long it will take for you to find this letter, since I didn’t tell you that I would be leaving you one.
I didn’t want to risk you reading it while I was alive, or too soon after I passed.
I know that you’re probably angry with me, and if you find my words on paper too quickly into that anger, you might do something rash like throwing it away, or tossing the envelope into the fireplace.
Still, I hope you do eventually find it.
There’s so many things that I’ve wanted to say to you for a long time.
I married you at nineteen, and we had our son before I turned twenty-one. We both know these things, and yet, even writing those words feels unbelievable. I never expected my life to turn out the way it did, and I definitely didn’t expect that I would make yours so miserable in the process.
As soon as my diagnosis was confirmed, my parents began planning.
There wasn’t even a moment for them where they considered letting me out of any familial obligations.
They needed me, and telling the world about my disease so that I could live in peace, unburdened by the requirement of marriage, was unthinkable.
They didn’t care how many years I had left to live, only that those years were useful to them and to the criminal organization that they devoted their lives to.
I used to dream of a different reality where my mother cried during my doctor’s appointments.
Where she understood the grim hand her daughter had been dealt, and where she refused to let my short life be lived in vain.
She’d leave my father, and take me around the world to see everything.
She’d let me do whatever I wanted. Eat whatever I wanted because it didn’t matter if I put on a few pounds.
I wouldn’t have to be poked and prodded and manicured weekly so that I was perfect to the public eye.
I wouldn’t have to have a husband, so it wouldn’t matter how I looked in our society.
Life was better in that reality, but it was just a dream.
My mother didn’t cry about my diagnosis and it didn’t devastate her that I would die young.
It angered her. It was an issue she had to deal with.
An obstacle in her grand plan to use me for the one thing she was raised to think girls were good for, forging alliances through marriage.
And making babies to cement those alliances even further.
She didn’t care about me, and I think that’s when I decided not to care about me either.
Instead of dreaming of my ideal reality where I got to see the world before my death, I dreamed that I would die before she could force me into the marriage that would give her everything she’s been wishing for.
I thought it would be unfair and rotten for her to get everything she’s ever wanted while I lived a lie for her.
She didn’t feel guilty, not at all. She blamed me, even.
Said it was my fault that I had to lie to a future family about my condition, since I didn’t get it from her.
I didn’t get it from anyone, even. My disease was caused by a new mutation during conception—making me the first of the family to have it.
An inherited lethal disease that I inherited from no one.
How fucked up is that?
It’s rare, so rare that they aren’t sure if it’s 1, 2, or 3 percent of cases.
But enough about that. This letter isn’t about how awful my parents were, or how poor ole me won the gold medal in shitty genetic mutations.
This letter is about us, or really the lack of us.
You’ve known about my death sentence for a few weeks now, and I’ve never seen you so frazzled.
Your hair is a mess, and your suits are wrinkly, and you have circles under your eyes like you aren’t sleeping well.
Honestly, it’s disturbing to see the Moretti golden boy so… frayed.
If I didn’t know any better, I’d think your heart was breaking.
But we both know it isn’t, not for me. You’re worried about our boys, and I can’t blame you.
I worry about them too, more than anything as you well know.
It’s odd, thinking about the fact that I never wanted to be a mother, and it turned out to be my favorite thing about being alive.
I love Bastian and Leo with all my heart, and they’re the only people I’ve ever felt pure, undying love for.
I would do anything for them, and if I could live for them, I would.
But I can’t.
I’m going to die, and you’re going to adjust.
Did you know that I used to have a crush on your father?
Odd thing to bring up, I know. But I promise, I’m getting somewhere with it.
Dante Moretti, every young woman in our world had heard of the man.
Handsome, powerful, rich, and above all, kind.
Oh, don’t get me wrong, there were tales of his ruthlessness, especially when paired with his brother.
He could make a man regret ever taking their first breath, but he also never hid his moral compass.
He cared for women, and so a part of me wished my parents aimed higher than his Underboss son.
Maybe I resented you, at first, for being my match when your father would have changed my life for the better.
He wouldn’t want or need any children from me, and I doubt he would want to fall in love with me, given my age.
I think I would have told him about my condition as soon as we were married.
He would have given me money and protection to enjoy the final years of my life.
Sending me to beautiful places all around the globe, and making sure I take my medicine in the meantime.
I almost told him before marrying you, you know?
He was alone in my parents’ house, drinking at our bar while waiting for paperwork to be finalized, and I almost ran up to him and confessed everything.
I almost begged him to take me away from there and to let me live in peace before it was too late.
I didn’t, of course.
I can say all I like that perhaps I would have told him if we were matched, but maybe I wouldn’t have been brave enough. It’s difficult to speak up when you’ve spent a decade having your voice smothered out.
Maybe I just spent too much time describing what marrying your father would have been like, but I’m trying to make a point. Several points, really.
I never wanted to be married.
I never saw myself becoming a mother.
And all I ever wanted was to live as much life as I could before it was taken away from me.
Marrying you wasn’t my choice, and we both know I was a terrible wife to you.
But I don’t regret it for even a second.
Marrying you gave me Bastian, and eventually gave me Leo too.
Being pregnant, and giving birth to our boy, it showed me that there was never anything wrong with me, but there had always been something profoundly wrong with my mother.
I worried for Bastian’s health the moment it was confirmed he was in my stomach. I worried that he would have JHD, and not because that would expose my secret, but because it would mean his life wouldn’t be full.
He was my baby, unborn or not, and I already loved him more than my mother ever loved me.
I knew nothing about him, and I knew I would die for him.
I didn’t even know if he was a him yet. I actually pictured him as a girl first, you know?
I wasn’t disappointed, of course, when we learned his sex.
I think it was simply because I always liked the name Chiara, and thought it would be a nice name for a baby.
That was my grandmother’s name, you know? She died before my diagnosis, from a stroke. She was another person that I always wondered if she was around, would she try to help me? I liked to think she would, but I hardly knew her. Do you really know anyone at only nine years old?
But I’m getting off topic, again. My point is, if I married anyone other than you, Leon Moretti, I would never know that I wasn’t the problem.
I would die thinking that I was a burden my mother and father couldn’t bear, and that loving me was a task.
You made me a mother, and you showed me that only a sociopath wouldn’t care for their babies the way we care for ours.
We’re good parents, Leon. Excellent ones, even.
Our children love us, and we love them.
They’re such smart boys, with such kind hearts and we did that.
Bastian is so soft-spoken and shy, but brave at the same time. And our Leo, he could make it feel like the sun is shining in a tsunami.
I know I didn’t give you a chance to love me, and I certainly didn’t give myself any opportunity to fall in love with you either, and you can hate me for eternity for that.
I won’t be angry if you do. But I don’t want you to live the rest of your life thinking it was your fault that I didn’t want you.
I don’t want you to go on, thinking there’s something wrong with you, like I thought there was something wrong with me for years.
You’re a good man, and I think falling in love with you could have been easy—far too easy.
And frankly, Leon, you didn’t deserve to fall for a woman lying to your face.
You don’t deserve to mourn me with a broken heart, and you don’t deserve to know the loss of a wife who you cherished.
When Isobel died, it only further cemented my decision to keep you at arm’s length.
I know it’s not fair, and I made this decision for you, but I refused to put you through what Cassio had to experience.
No one deserves to feel that kind of loss.
There was never anything wrong with you, Leon.
I can’t think of another man that would put up with such a cold bitch of a wife, let alone one who would put up with it without cheating on her. And yes, I said cold bitch.
I’m not afraid of the words; that’s exactly how I acted around you.
It was the only way I could keep you from getting any closer.
If I let you in, we would be doomed. And not only did you deserve to survive my death with your heart intact, but I deserved to not know the feeling of loving you, Leon.
If I loved you, I wouldn’t be able to handle dying.
My death wouldn’t have been peaceful, or a relief of long-standing pain, it would be earth-shattering.
You’re not the kind of man that someone can love casually, and I’m sorry that I’ve likely made you doubt that.
I’m sorry that I’ve held all of the cards in this relationship, and I’m sorry that I didn’t give you a choice in any of it.
Like I said, I wouldn’t blame you if you never forgave me.
Lord knows, I held more grudges than most while I lived. You’re free to do the same.
But don’t resent my decision to give the boys a new mother. Don’t mope around about how you need to be married again to someone you aren’t in love with for a second time. Because I promise you, this one won’t be like me.
She’ll fall for you, Leon. Hard and fast.
She won’t have secrets to hide, or a life expectancy of ten years or less. She’ll adore our sons, and she’ll adore you. You’ve earned the relief that falling in love with her will bring you, and you shouldn’t feel guilty about it.
I was never meant for an epic love story. But you were.
Take care of our boys, but take care of yourself too.
And if you’ve made it through this whole letter, you’ve proven my previous point. You’re a good man, Leon Moretti. I hope that sharing the years that you shared with me haven’t broken you. You’re stronger than that—stronger than me—stronger than you know.
I’m sorry,
Cleo
Hands trembling around the thick paper, I exhale and scan back over the scrawling ink like the words may have disappeared as I read them.
Because how could they be real? Cleo may not have spoken that many words to me in our entire marriage, and yet there they all are. Still available to be seen. Still real.
I don’t know how many times I reread the letter before I force myself to put it down.
Seeing her words, and hearing them try to assure me that there’s nothing wrong with me so that I don’t live with that feeling until the end of time…
it shifts something inside of me. I understand her more now, and I don’t know how to feel about it.
Cleo may call herself a cold bitch.
But she was never a monster.