Page 32 of Broken Trust

“I didn't call to ask for money.”

“Dante. A number.”

I rub my forehead. “Enough to cover the rent and the bills for a few weeks, until I can find something, can you stretch to five thousand?”

“I'll wire it to you tomorrow. That should get you through the summer.”

My throat tightens. “Carlo, I can't take…”

“Let me finish.” His tone shifts into the one he used when we were kids and I'd screwed up. “I'll help you get back on your feet this time, but I can’t bail you out forever.”

“I get it,” I say, swallowing hard. “Thank you.”

“Don't. Just fix it.” He pauses. “How's my niece?”

I look over at Rosa, who has found a chunk of banana in her curls and is trying very seriously to eat it.

“She's perfect,” I say. “She's the only thing I've ever done right.”

“Send me regular photos.” There's another pause, longer this time. “And Gia? Have you seen her?”

“Last week. She's opening a restaurant in the square down in her valley. She sold her own jewelry to pay for it, and she's doing the renovations herself.” My voice goes rough without my permission. “She was glowing, Carlo. Covered in plaster dust, wearing a pair of old overalls, and she was the most beautiful sight in the world. She seemed happier than I'd made her in years.”

“You really were an idiot,” Carlo says.

“I know.”

“That woman would have walked through fire for you.” He sighs. “You never realize a good thing until it's gone. Pa used to say that, remember?”

“How could I forget?”

“He had a point.”

We talk for another ten minutes about his job and the heat wave there and the girl downstairs who keeps leaving notes on his door, and when we hang up, I feel lighter than I have in weeks. I snap a picture of Rosa's sticky face and send it to him, and he replies with three crying-laughing emojis and a heart.

Rosa's getting fussy, so I lift her out of the high chair, wipe her down, and carry her over to the window. The old woman opposite is hanging out her laundry, and when she lifts a hand to us, Rosa waves back, opening and closing her whole fist like she's trying to grab the air.

That's when someone bangs on the door, three sharp raps, official and impatient. I settle Rosa on my hip and go to open it.

A man in a gray suit is waiting in the hallway with a clipboard and a large manila envelope. He's in his fifties, with a mustache and tired eyes, and he looks at me, then at the baby, then at the room behind me, and something like pity crosses his face.

“Dante Ferraro?” he asks.

“That's me.”

“You've been served.” He hands over the envelope. “I'll need you to sign here to confirm receipt.”

I already know what's inside. Maybe I've known ever since I left Gia's restaurant last week and kept replaying the look on her face when I told her I was proud of her.

I shut the door, then I sink onto the edge of the mattress with her in my lap. She keeps grabbing for the envelope, trying to get it into her mouth, so I hold it out of her reach and tear it open with my teeth. Then let her crawl over the floor. She’s trying to walk. But every time she does, she gets a little scared as if she’s expecting to fall, which she does.

PETITION FOR DISSOLUTION OF MARRIAGE. Gia Rizzo Ferraro, petitioner. Dante Ferraro, respondent. Filed on the fourth of March.

That was months ago, which means she'd already filed when I stood in her restaurant with my daughter in my arms, telling her how proud I was, and she looked me right in the eye and said goodbye.

For a long time I just sit there holding the papers. I keep waiting for the anger to come, but it never does, because deep down I'm not even surprised. She's doing what she should have done the day of the baby shower, when I let her family tear her to pieces without saying a word. She's getting free of me, and I can't blame her for that.

What I didn't expect was how much it would hurt. Now it's over, officially.