The trials began six months later.
Rebecca accepted a plea agreement involving child abuse, financial crimes, unlawful administration of medication, and participation in the events leading to Ethan’s death.
She agreed to testify against Victor.
People criticized the deal.
Some wanted her punished more severely.
Part of me did too.
But prosecutors wanted Victor.
And Rebecca possessed evidence nobody else had.
Messages.
Recordings.
Bank documents.
Most importantly, one voicemail.
Ethan’s voice.
The existence of it surprised everyone.
Rebecca had secretly recorded one of their arguments, apparently because she hoped to use Ethan’s anger against him during a future custody dispute.
Instead, she captured his final act of courage.
The recording played during Victor’s trial.
My brother sounded tired.
But clear.
“I don’t care what Victor threatened. I’m not giving him those records.”
Rebecca answered.
“You don’t understand what he can do.”
“I understand perfectly.”
“He’ll destroy us.”
“No.”
Ethan paused.
“He’ll destroy himself.”
I sat in the courtroom behind prosecutors.
Leo was not there.
Neither was Maya.
They did not need those memories.
Victor’s attorneys argued Rebecca was entirely responsible.
Rebecca’s attorneys pointed toward Victor.
The jury heard about corruption, blackmail, forged transfers, manipulated land deals, and the chemical compound found in Ethan’s system.
They saw messages where Victor told Rebecca:
Make sure he drinks what I gave you.
Victor claimed he was referring to a harmless supplement.
Experts disagreed.
Then came the message that ruined him.
Sent two hours after Ethan died.
Now he can’t talk.
The courtroom went silent.
Victor stared straight ahead.
For years, the Moretti name had protected him.
Now it became a weight dragging him down.
When the guilty verdict was read, I felt no triumph.
Only exhaustion.
Outside the courthouse, cameras waited.
“Mr. Moretti!”
“Thomas!”
“Do you believe justice was served?”
“What happens to the Moretti organization now?”
I stopped.
That question had followed me for months.
Now I finally had an answer.
“It ends.”
Reporters shouted over one another.
I continued.
“Every company I own will undergo independent review. Anything legitimate stays legitimate. Anything that isn’t gets closed or reported.”
Someone called out, “Are you saying the Moretti family is finished?”
I thought of Ethan.
“No.”
I looked directly at the cameras.
“I’m saying it gets a different meaning.”
That decision cost me millions.
It cost me relationships.
Men who had called themselves brothers disappeared when there was no longer easy money.
Some threatened me.
Others accused me of betraying my father’s legacy.
Maybe I did.
But legacies are not sacred merely because dead people built them.
Sometimes the greatest respect you can show the past is refusing to repeat its mistakes.
I sold clubs.
Closed questionable businesses.
Separated myself from people I should have left years earlier.
My legitimate logistics and construction companies remained.
For the first time, accountants knew exactly where every dollar came from.
It was strangely peaceful.
At home, Leo started first grade again after months of treatment.
The first morning terrified him.
“What if somebody asks why I was gone?”
“Tell them whatever you want.”
“What if I don’t want to tell them?”
“Then don’t.”
“What if they ask about my leg?”
His cast was gone, but he still walked with a slight limp.
“Say you hurt it.”
“What if they ask how?”
I knelt beside him.
“You don’t owe anyone your painful stories.”
He stared at me.
“Really?”
“Really.”
Maya began preschool.
She hated it for three days.
On the fourth, she discovered finger paint.
Apparently finger paint was more powerful than trauma.
She covered an entire page.
Then her hands.
Then her face.
Then, somehow, my jacket when I picked her up.
“Purple,” she announced proudly.
“I noticed.”
“You like it?”
I looked at my ruined jacket.
“I love it.”
She laughed.
That laugh became one of the best sounds in my house.
But healing did not move in a straight line.
One night, almost a year after the escape, Maya woke screaming.
I ran into her room.
She was pressed against the headboard.
“Basement!”
“No basement.”
“Door!”
Her breathing came fast.
I sat on the floor.
I didn’t touch her.
Dr. Warren had taught me to let Maya choose contact when frightened.
“You’re home.”
She cried.
“You’re in your room.”
She looked around.
“Window.”
“Yes.”
“Door open?”
I opened it wider.
“Yes.”
“Light?”
I turned on the hallway light.
Gradually, her breathing slowed.
Then she reached toward me.
I picked her up.
“Uncle Thomas?”
“Yes?”
“Rebecca can’t come?”
“No.”
“Never?”
I kissed her hair.
“Never.”
In the hallway, I noticed Leo standing quietly.
He had heard everything.
“You okay?” I asked.
He nodded.
Then shook his head.
Children are more honest when they are too tired to pretend.
“I remember too.”
I carried Maya into my room and gestured for Leo to follow.
We all ended up in my enormous bed.
Maya curled against one side.
Leo lay on the other.
Neither child slept for an hour.
Finally Leo whispered:
“Do you miss Dad?”
“Every day.”
“Me too.”
“Tell me something you remember.”
He smiled slightly.
“He burned pancakes.”
I laughed.
“He always burned pancakes.”
“He said they were crispy.”
“He lied.”
Leo giggled.
Maya lifted her sleepy head.
“Daddy pancakes?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t remember.”
Leo’s smile disappeared.
Maya had been so young when Ethan died.
I reached toward the nightstand and picked up my phone.
“Then tomorrow, we make Daddy pancakes.”
“How?”
“We burn them.”
Leo laughed so loudly Maya laughed too, even though she didn’t understand why.
The next morning, I intentionally destroyed six pancakes.
Rosa threatened to remove me from the kitchen.
Leo declared them perfect.
We placed Ethan’s photograph on the counter.
For the first time, remembering him didn’t feel like opening a wound.
It felt like bringing him home.
Later that week, my attorney called.
“There’s another matter.”
I groaned.
“What now?”
“Adoption.”
My heart stopped.
“What?”
“The guardianship is stable. Rebecca’s rights have been terminated. With the criminal cases resolved, you can petition to adopt.”
I sat down.
“Would their names change?”
“Only if you choose.”
“They keep Ethan’s.”
“Thomas, they already have your family name.”
Right.
Moretti.
For once, that name made me smile.
“When can we file?”
“Immediately.”
That evening, I didn’t tell the children.
Not yet.
I wanted to ask Dr. Warren the right way to discuss it.
But Leo overheard me talking to Michael on the phone.
At dinner, he pushed peas around his plate.
“Are you adopting us?”
I froze.
Rosa quietly left the room.
“How much did you hear?”
“Enough.”
I set down my fork.
“Would that bother you?”
He shrugged, but his eyes filled.
“What does adopt mean?”
“It means legally, officially, I become your parent.”
“Instead of Dad?”
“No.”
His face immediately relaxed.
“Never instead of Dad.”
I moved closer.
“Your father will always be your father. Nothing changes that.”
“Then what are you?”
I thought about it.
“Whatever you need me to be.”
He stared at his plate.
Then whispered:
“Can you still be Uncle Thomas?”
I smiled.
“Always.”
Maya, who had understood approximately twelve percent of the conversation, raised both hands.
“I want Uncle Thomas!”
Leo laughed.
“So do I.”
And that was the answer.
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