Part 4 — The three-year-old boy stopped eating in my arms and pointed strangely at his father — Rico turned pale

At Vittorio’s last words, Rico did not get angry for the first time.

Fear appeared on him.

He stepped in front of Leo and covered him with his body.

“Dante, lock the door.”

Dante reached for his weapon, but two armed men appeared behind Vittorio. Marco gripped the glass so tightly that his fingers turned white.

I hugged Leo.

The boy was still holding my wooden whale.

“Son, give me the phone,” Vittorio told Leo.

“No,” Leo said.

This was his second complete word.

Rico looked at Vittorio.

“You killed my wife.”

“Your wife liked asking too many questions.”

“And my son?”

“Children sometimes get in the way of adults.”

I looked at the phone. The call was still in progress on the screen, but a small red sign was blinking. The recording was not only being heard in the restaurant. It was being sent directly to the city police emergency department.

This had been built into Elena’s device.

Rico saw it too.

“Vittorio, repeat what you said.”

Vittorio’s gaze moved to the phone.

“What?”

“Say that you killed Elena.”

Vittorio’s face changed.

Dante drew his gun, but Rico lowered his hand.

“No one will shoot.”

“Have you lost your mind?” Dante roared.

“No. For the first time I came to my senses.”

The sound of tires was heard outside. Then police sirens.

Vittorio stepped back.

“Did you call them yourself?”

“No,” I told him. “Elena managed to.”

Vittorio shot toward me, but the bullet hit the wall. Dante twisted his hand, while Rico placed his hand on Leo’s head. Within several seconds the restaurant filled with shouting, heavy footsteps, and the sound of metal handcuffs.

The policemen were handcuffing Vittorio when he called out to Rico.

“Your family will leave you anyway.”

Rico did not answer.

The next morning, in the hospital corridor, Vittorio heard his own words again. The investigator played the recording. Everyone heard his voice saying that Elena asked too many questions and that children got in the way of adults.

Vittorio covered his ears with his hands.

“Turn it off.”

“That is your voice,” the investigator told him.

“You changed it.”

“We only recorded it.”

His lawyer closed the folder.

“After this testimony I cannot continue your defense.”

Vittorio realized for the first time that he could no longer order anyone in the room around.

Rico, meanwhile, stood in the empty corner of the kitchen. Where Leo’s broken plate had lain the previous night, only one small grain remained. He picked it up, put it in his palm, and looked at it for a long time.

Three weeks later I had to return to the old Moretti house. Toys lay scattered on the floor in Leo’s room, and Elena’s photograph lay on the bed. The corner of the photograph was slightly burned, but Leo’s smile could still be seen.

“Did Father leave?” Leo asked me.

“He is at a meeting.”

“Will he return?”

“He will return.”

“Will Mother return too?”

I could not think of an answer to this question. I sat down beside Leo and took his little fingers in my hand.

“Mother remained inside you,” I told him. “When you remember her, she is with you.”

Leo rested his head on my shoulder.

“Will you stay too?”

“If you want.”

“I want.”

When Rico returned home that day, he first looked at Leo, then at me.

“I don’t know how to be a father,” he said.

“Then learn every day.”

“Why are you helping me?”

“Because your son needs help. Not because you are a Moretti.”

He lowered his head.

“Fair.”

In the following months Rico closed several businesses, took the weapons out of the house, and changed the security team. The trial lasted a long time. Vittorio confessed to the crime when Elena’s car mechanic and the bank records confirmed everything. Rico always went to court holding Leo’s hand.

I did not return to the restaurant.

I started working at a small bakery on the other side of Brooklyn. In the mornings I baked bread, and in the evenings I met Leo. Little by little he began to speak. First there were words. Then sentences.

The first drawing he made for me was of a big blue whale with three small dots on its back.

“This is you,” he told me.

“Why a whale?”

“Because then your voice did not run away.”

When the first snow came in winter, Leo stood by the window and counted the snowflakes. Rico was trying to prepare hot cocoa in the kitchen and was arranging the sugar cubes one by one on a plate.

One time I received an unknown message on my phone.

“I miss you. Come, let’s start again.”

I understood that Rico was writing.

I went to his house. I stood at the door for a long time. Leo’s laughter could be heard from inside.

Rico opened the door.

“I need to know the answer,” he told me.

“You already know the answer.”

“Can you still tell me?”

“I am not running away from you. But I will no longer save your life at the price of losing mine.”

His eyes tensed.

“Is this a no?”

“This is a boundary.”

Rico looked at me for a long time, then stepped aside.

“Leo is waiting for you.”

“I know.”

That evening Leo took my wooden whale and placed it beside his drawing.

“Are you not afraid anymore?” he asked.

I squeezed the pendant with my fingers. The wood had already worn down, small scratches were visible on it, but it was still warm.

“I am afraid,” I told him. “I simply know now where I am going.”

Leo smiled at me.

It was snowing outside. The smell of bread, cocoa, and clean wood filled the house. For the first time in a long while, silence no longer resembled danger.

I hung my whale by the window.

And this time I chose the voice.