Chapter 4
The next morning, I woke up early.
The sun was shining through my bedroom window.
For a moment, I forgot where I was.
Then I remembered.
I jumped out of bed.
I was so excited I could barely stand it.
I ran downstairs.
My father was already in the kitchen.
He was drinking coffee. Reading a newspaper.
He looked up when I came in.
He smiled.
"Good morning, son," he said. "Sleep well?"
I nodded vigorously. "Yeah! The bed is so soft! And the room is huge! And—"
My father laughed.
It was a deep, warm sound.
"I'm glad you like it," he said.
Maria came in then.
"Good morning, Mr. Moretti," she said. "Good morning, young man. What would you like for breakfast?"
"Pancakes?" I asked hopefully.
Maria smiled. "Pancakes it is."
She started cooking.
My father gestured for me to sit down.
"Your mother is still sleeping," he said. "She had a long day yesterday. She needs her rest."
I nodded.
"Can I ask you something?" I said.
"Anything," he said.
"Where were you? For three years? Everyone said you were dead."
My father's face grew serious.
He put down his coffee cup.
"I was in hiding," he said. "I had enemies. Very dangerous enemies. They found out where I was. They were going to kill me. And if they thought I was dead, they wouldn't come after you and your mother. So I faked my death. I made everyone believe I had died in a fire. And then I went away. To a safe place. To plan. To build my power back up. To make sure I could protect you both when I came back."
He paused.
"It was the hardest thing I've ever done," he said. "Leaving you. Letting you think I was dead. But it was the only way to keep you safe."
I thought about it.
It made sense.
Kind of.
"But why didn't you tell Mom?" I asked.
"Because if she knew, the enemies might have found out," he said. "They were watching her. Watching you. If she had known I was alive, she might have acted differently. They might have suspected. And then they would have hurt her to get to me. Or hurt you. I couldn't risk that."
He reached across the table and covered my hand with his.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I'm so sorry I put you both through that. But I would do it again if it meant keeping you safe."
I nodded.
I understood.
It didn't make the pain go away.
But I understood.
My mother came down then.
She looked better. Rested.
"Good morning," she said.
"Good morning," my father and I said together.
Maria brought her coffee.
We ate breakfast together.
After breakfast, my father took us on a tour of the house and the grounds.
He showed us the gardens. The pool. The tennis court. The gym.
He showed us the security system. The guards. The safe room.
"Nothing is going to happen to you here," he said. "I promise."
That afternoon, my father told us more about his business.
He didn't sugarcoat it.
He told us he was a powerful man. That he had enemies. That his world was dangerous.
"But I have people who protect me," he said. "Who protect us. And you will never be in danger. I will never let anything happen to either of you."
My mother listened quietly.
She didn't say much.
But I could see she was thinking. Processing.
That evening, my father took me aside.
"There's something I want to show you," he said.
He took me to his study.
It was a big room with bookshelves and a huge desk.
He opened a drawer and pulled out a photograph album.
He sat down beside me and opened it.
The first page had a photograph of him and my mother. They were young. Happy. In love.
The next pages had photographs of my mother pregnant.
Then photographs of me as a baby.
Me taking my first steps.
Me on my first birthday.
Me blowing out candles.
Me playing soccer.
Every year of my life was documented.
Even the three years he was supposed to be dead.
"You have pictures from when you were gone?" I asked.
He nodded.
"I had people watching you," he said. "Taking pictures. Making sure you were okay. I couldn't be there. But I needed to see you grow up. I needed to know you were safe."
He pointed to a picture of me playing soccer at school.
"That was last year," he said. "You scored three goals that day."
I stared at him.
He had been there.
Not physically.
But he had been watching.
He had cared.
Tears filled my eyes.
"I missed you," I whispered.
My father pulled me into a hug.
He was big and strong and warm.
"I missed you too, son," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "More than you'll ever know."
We sat there like that for a long time.
Father and son.
May you like
Together again.
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