The Last Moretti Vote
Chapter 14 - The Last Moretti Vote
Francesca died at eighty-one.
Her will surprised everyone by being boring.
Money to Valentina.
Some to charities.
Family jewelry distributed with detailed notes.
No hidden confession.
Excellent.
But her Moretti voting shares still existed.
Small after restructuring.
Enough to create one final question.
Valentina inherited them.
She called me.
“I don’t want them.”
“Sell.”
“To who?”
“Market.”
“There are transfer restrictions.”
Of course.
The independent board could repurchase.
Employee trust could acquire.
Or I could.
My passive ownership plus Francesca’s shares would not create control.
But it would make me the largest individual holder again.
For one afternoon, old desire returned.
Not criminal power.
Corporate.
Respectable.
Clean.
I imagined the boardroom.
My mother’s company.
My father’s name.
My history corrected.
Maybe I deserved some return.
Dangerous word.
Deserve.
I told Elena.
She listened.
Then:
“What do you want?”
“To buy them.”
“Why?”
“They’re family shares.”
She waited.
I heard myself.
Family.
Ownership.
Again.
“I don’t know.”
“Then don't decide today.”
Simple.
Sofia called from Boston that evening.
She had no interest in company structure.
Good.
I told her anyway.
She said:
“Would buying them make you happy?”
“I don't know.”
“Would not buying them make you sad?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because it feels like giving away something my mother built.”
Sofia paused.
“Does the company remember she built it?”
“Yes.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
“Then what are the shares doing?”
Children grow into adults and become unbearable.
I laughed.
The employee trust bought Francesca’s shares.
Valentina agreed.
I did not.
Then did.
The money funded Francesca’s estate obligations and charities.
No family war.
No legacy speech.
One more door closed.
I kept my small passive interest.
Enough to receive annual reports.
No vote worth fearing.
The ivory piano remained mine.
That felt sufficient.
At sixty? Wait Dominic began 40-ish. Now maybe 58? Sofia 15-ish after 12 years. Francesca dies maybe a few years later when Sofia in college, Dominic early 50s. Fine.
When Sofia graduated conservatory, she performed an original piece.
Program title:
THE HAPPY ONE, AFTER MORETTI.
I nearly fell out of my seat.
Afterward:
“You stole my song.”
“You wrote twelve bars.”
“Foundational.”
She laughed.
The piece began with one single note.
Then a childlike melody.
Then darker chords.
Disruption.
Silence.
Finally the melody returned changed.
Not untouched.
Not triumphant.
Older.
I understood.
Elena held my hand.
At the reception, a donor asked Sofia:
“Is it true your stepfather is Dominic Moretti?”
She looked at me.
Then said:
“Yes.”
No shame.
No pride.
Fact.
The donor asked:
“Did he inspire the piece?”
Sofia smiled.
“A lonely piano did.”
Better.
She became a music therapist.
Not concert pianist.
That surprised us.
She wanted to work with children in hospitals.
“Why?”
“Because people think music is extra until they’re scared.”
Her mother cried.
I did too.
We were predictable.
Vincent sent a congratulations card.
Niko attended graduation.
Dom had died? No Dom alive likely. He came too.
Family looked nothing like a clean tree.
More like subway map.
That felt honest.
Years later, Sofia established a small music program for children whose parents were incarcerated.
She asked me to speak once.
I refused.
“Why?”
“Not every program needs my story.”
She stared.
Then smiled.
“Growth.”
Annoying.
I donated anonymously.
Then told her because secrecy around money was also old habit.
She accepted under program rules.
No naming rights.
Good.
The last major newspaper profile about me ran when I was fifty-five.
FORMER MOB BOSS NOW COMPLIANCE EXECUTIVE.
Terrible headline.
I declined interview.
My life no longer required public interpretation.
That evening, Elena and I ate takeout in the music room.
She was fifty? roughly. Good.
We had been married more than a decade.
She pressed one piano key.
“Lonely?”
“No.”
“Happy?”
I thought.
“Used.”
She smiled.
“That’s romantic.”
“I mean the piano.”
“I know.”
We laughed.
Then my phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
For one second, every old instinct returned.
Shoulders tight.
Pulse.
Threat.
I looked at Elena.
She saw.
“Answer or don't.”
Choice.
I answered.
Telemarketer.
Extended car warranty.
May you like
I laughed so hard I had to sit down.
Some endings arrive disguised as nuisance calls.
