Chapter 8 - The Letters from Federal Prison
Six months later.
At the Oxford Federal Correctional Institution in Wisconsin, winter had set in, covering the exercise yard in thick, white snow.
Dante Moretti sat in a small, cold visiting room, wearing a plain orange jumpsuit. His dark hair was cut short, his face thin and worn.
Every week, Dante was allowed two hours of free time in the prison library.
And every single week, for six months, Dante had written a letter.
He didn't write to his lawyers. He didn't write to his former business associates.
He wrote to Lucia.
He wrote thirty-four letters in total.
He didn't ask for forgiveness. He didn't plead for her to drop the divorce. He didn't demand rights to see their daughter.
In those letters, Dante poured out his broken soul. He wrote about his deep, agonizing remorse. He admitted every mistake he had ever made during their six years of marriage. He described how the memory of her pale face on that trauma table haunted every single second of his dark nights in his prison cell.
He ended every single letter with the same two lines:
I do not ask you to forgive me. I only ask that you tell Aurelia one day that her father was a fool who lost the only treasures he ever had.
Every week, the letters were mailed to the Vance estate in Maine.
And every week, the letters were delivered to Gerald Whitmore’s office, where they were reviewed, logged, and placed inside a thick lockbox in Lucia’s private study.
Lucia never read them.
She didn't need to.
Lucia had moved forward into a world where Dante Moretti no longer possessed any power over her mind, her heart, or her future.
She lived in a grand, light-filled estate along the coastline of Portland, Maine.
Every morning, Lucia would walk through the lush green gardens carrying seven-month-old Aurelia in her arms.
Aurelia was a healthy, joyful baby with bright, curious dark eyes and soft ringlets of dark hair. She filled the house with laughter, music, and light.
One sunny afternoon, Gerald Whitmore visited the Maine estate, sitting on the wide marble porch with Arthur Vance, drinking tea while watching Lucia play with Aurelia on a soft blanket spread across the grass.
Gerald pulled out a thin legal folder from his coat.
"Dante's final divorce decree was signed by the judge this morning," Gerald reported quietly to Arthur. "The Vance-Moretti corporate trust has been fully dissolved. All port assets have been restored to Lucia’s name. Dante surrendered all residual claims to the child without contesting a single clause."
Arthur watched his daughter laughing as she lifted little Aurelia into the air.
"And his prison sentence?" Arthur asked.
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"Eight years," Gerald replied. "He refused parole eligibility. He told the judge he wished to serve the full sentence."
Arthur took a quiet sip of his tea, his silver eyes cold, but calm. "Good. Let him sit in the cold for eight years. It's the least he owes the world."
