Epilogue
Ricardo
The study is quiet except for the soft murmur of the television.
Though I am alone in here, I am not alone in the house. This house has more people in it now than it did just days ago, and I am aware of every one of them.
Dante is upstairs in his old room, recovering with more irritation than grace. The doctors discharged him yesterday with a long list of restrictions he is determined to break and medications he claims he does not need until the pain makes him pale and takes his breath away.
Julia has been hovering just enough to annoy him, and Dante has been complaining just enough to reassure her.
It has worked better than I feared.
I had wondered, privately, whether bringing him here would make everything harder.
My son recovering under my roof while Julia lives here too.
Julia, who is pregnant with my child. Julia, who I have asked to move in with me permanently, because I see no reason to wait any longer when I know exactly what I want.
Her.
Our child.
The life beginning here whether the timing is right or not.
I asked her two weeks ago, while she stood in the spare room where she had stored boxes from her apartment, rifling through them for clothes.
I took her hand and brought her to my bedroom, which she had already been sharing with me, and into the closet where I had cleared space for her.
I told her I wanted her here. I told her I wanted her things here, her books, her clothes, her ridiculous number of hair ties. I wanted her life threaded through mine in every possible way.
She cried before she said yes.
Then she assured me that the doctor assured her that the crying wouldn’t last the whole pregnancy. She promises.
I do not mind so much. As long as she turns to me for comfort.
Now she is upstairs, probably in Dante’s room, probably arguing with him to eat soup instead of a steak, which is what he really wants.
He has already accused her of trying to turn him into an invalid. She told him he was doing a beautiful job of it himself.
I couldn't be happier.
Well…
I turn my attention back to the television as the anchor’s face appears on the screen, solemn. I turn the TV up a tick when, behind her, a photograph of Harrison Winthrop III appears in a dark suit, smiling beside his father at a campaign event.
The call came from Atlantic City an hour ago to watch the news tonight.
My fingers curl against the arm of the chair.
A banner moves across the bottom of the screen.
Breaking News.
The first name scrolls across the screen.
A woman, a former campaign aide, now represented by counsel, has come forward with allegations of abuse, coercion, intimidation, and a private settlement arranged through intermediaries tied to the Winthrop family.
The anchor continues speaking, and I eat up every word.
“Sources close to the investigation say the allegations are supported by financial records, private correspondence, and at least one settlement agreement tied to a Winthrop family adviser,” the woman says seriously.
Then she moves on to speak about a second woman who is expected to speak through her attorney within the next twenty-four hours.
I already know there are more than that, and that they’ll be coming forward soon.
“Anonymous sources are also reporting that authorities are investigating allegations of Winthrop involvement in connection with the attempted abduction of Julia O’Brien last month.
Former fiancée of Winthrop, and daughter of prominent local Judge Patrick O’Brien, Ms. O’Brien was attacked in her home recently, during which time a shooting wounded a family friend endeavoring to protect her from the intruders.
The friend’s identity has not been released. ”
It will stay that way.
Dante’s name will not be dragged through this.
I sit back slowly.
A man like Harrison Winthrop might be able to shake off the abuse allegations. It leaves a bad taste in my mouth, but men like him often do. But an attempted abduction of his former fiancée? He won't be able to get out of that one so easily.
It took Luca’s people six days to find what Harrison spent years burying. Six days to reach women who had been paid into silence. Six days to uncover accounts, shell charities, security invoices, private investigators, and quiet legal threats.
The Winthrops built their name on the assumption that everyone had a price or a secret that could be leveraged.
They miscalculated.
People with long arms, as Vito put it, can reach into places where old money likes to hide its secrets.
The broadcast shifts to footage outside a courthouse in Connecticut. Reporters crowd behind barricades. A lawyer I recognize from Roberto’s file steps to a podium.
I turn up the volume by one more click.
The woman will not appear on camera. Good. Better that way for now. Her attorney, however, speaks for her with enough anger and authority to make it clear this won’t be brushed under the rug so easily.
No one will speak of the blood on Julia’s hands. No one will say my son nearly died on her kitchen floor. No one will attach the Conti name to the shooting, except personally to Julia because she is with me and because that cannot be hidden forever.
The police report has been perfectly shaped.
The hospital records will never be released or connected to the incident.
The building footage has been handled.
Everyone who needed encouragement received it. Everyone who needed payment received more. Everyone who needed threats got those too.
And the only reason Julia's name is even mentioned publicly is her well-known association with Harrison Winthrop.
She sat beside me in this study a week ago with her hands folded in her lap and told Roberto over speakerphone that she knew she would have to give a formal statement. She knew there may be depositions, lawyers, perhaps even a courtroom if the Winthrops fail to bury this fast enough.
She agreed anyway, and her voice stayed steady and strong the whole time.
I have never been prouder of her.
I have never wanted more violently to keep the world away from her.
Both truths live in me now, side by side, making me a difficult man to reason with.
On the screen, Harrison’s photograph changes to another one. This time he is leaving a building with sunglasses on, his head lowered, a hand raised against cameras.
I smile.
There you are.
For the first time in his life, Harrison Winthrop looks like a man who cannot charm a room with his perfect smile.
The anchor says his representatives deny all allegations.
Of course.
She says the Winthrop family has declined further comment.
Of course.
She says federal authorities are reviewing whether campaign funds or charitable vehicles were used to facilitate payments.
Good.
Let them review.
Let them pull every thread.
Let Harrison watch what generations before him built crumble to the ground. Let him wake each morning to another headline, another woman, another account, another ally stepping back from him with rehearsed disgust.
I am realistic.
Men like Harrison rarely spend their lives in cells.
Families like his know how to delay, appeal, settle, erase, redirect.
Perhaps he will lose his place in public life.
Perhaps his father will cut him loose to protect the family name.
Perhaps he will flee to some estate for “treatment” of some ailment that made him act this way.
It does not matter.
He won’t live long enough for it to matter.
I only need him to live long enough to see his own fall from grace. To see his future die.
And to know Julia is the one who did it.
After that… he’s mine.
A soft knock sounds at the study door.
I pick up the remote and turn off the television before she opens the door.
She knows what is happening. She gave her consent. She made her choice.
But she does not need to see it.
The screen goes black just as the door opens.
Julia steps inside, one hand resting lightly against the frame. She is wearing a comfortable sweater and pants, finally hers. Her hair is loose around her shoulders, and there is a faint crease between her brows.
She looks at the television first.
Then at me.
She chooses not to say anything.
Instead, she crosses the room and slides into my lap, and I wrap my arms around her.
“That’s better,” she says, settling in.
I press my mouth to hers and slide one hand over her stomach, unable to help myself.
“How is he?” I ask when I pull back.
“Asleep,” she says. “Unwillingly.”
“You tired him out?” I say, amused.
“It's the only way he'll get some rest.”
I grin. “He's going to figure out what you're doing sooner rather than later.”
“He already has,” she says. “I told him to be grateful I’m choosing conversation over a pillow.”
I tip my head back and laugh.
She grins at me, then it softens into a smile.
“I'd be very happy if this baby had your smile,” she says.
My heart goes embarrassingly soft at her words.
“Dio, cuore mio,” I murmur, my voice roughening. “Che cosa mi fai.”
God, my heart. What you do to me.
Her eyes soften, but her mouth curves. “Non lo dirò a nessuno.”
I won’t tell anyone.
I grin. “That’s a relief.”
“Your secret is safe with me,” she whispers.
THE END