Chapter 23 - Sentencing Day
The courtroom was full.
Reporters expected a mafia spectacle.
They got a father trying not to vomit.
The government asked for eighty-four months.
Miriam asked for forty-eight.
The judge reviewed my cooperation, criminal history, acceptance of responsibility and efforts to dismantle the organization.
Then victims spoke.
Not Isabelle’s family.
Mine.
Former borrowers described threats.
A club owner described paying protection money for years.
A driver explained being beaten by men who claimed they acted in my name.
I had not ordered every act.
That excuse died before it reached my mouth.
I created the system.
I benefited.
Responsibility was larger than instructions.
When it was my turn, I stood.
I did not ask forgiveness.
“I spent years believing that if I did not personally pull a trigger, personally take money, personally threaten a family, then I could call myself separate from what happened around me.”
The courtroom was silent.
“I was wrong.”
I looked toward my daughters.
The judge had allowed them to sit in the back for sentencing.
Grace sat between Sophie and Nora.
Olivia stared at me.
“My wife tried to show me that power without accountability eventually enters your home. In my case, it entered through my own brother.”
I paused.
“That does not make me his victim instead of responsible for myself.”
Miriam had advised brevity.
I kept it brief.
“I accept the sentence.”
The judge imposed sixty months.
Five years.
With credit rules and good conduct, potentially less.
But five years was the number my daughters heard.
Nora began crying.
Sophie buried her face against Grace.
Olivia remained very still.
The judge allowed me ten days to self-surrender.
Ten days.
People asked what I wanted to do.
Travel was restricted.
No last vacation.
No dramatic celebration.
I wanted ordinary.
Breakfast.
School pickup.
Homework.
Bedtime.
On the final night, the girls slept in my room.
All three.
Nora kicked me repeatedly.
Sophie stole the blanket.
Olivia pretended she was too old for this while sleeping closest to me.
At 3:00 a.m., I woke and stared at the ceiling.
Grace stood in the doorway.
“You awake?”
“No.”
She entered.
We sat by the window.
“I’m scared,” I admitted.
“I know.”
“Five years.”
“I know.”
“They’ll change.”
“Yes.”
“I’ll miss it.”
“Yes.”
“Could you disagree once?”
“No.”
I smiled.
Then my smile disappeared.
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“My daughters’ voices.”
Grace shook her head.
“I didn’t give them back.”
“You made room.”
“They did the rest.”
“So did you.”
She cried quietly.
I touched her cheek.
She leaned into my hand.
This time when I kissed her, it was gentle.
No urgency.
No promise beyond truth.
When we separated, she whispered, “That took forever.”
“I was being respectful.”
“You were being terrified.”
“Both can happen.”
Morning came too quickly.
At the federal facility, I hugged each daughter.
Nora refused to let go.
Grace finally lifted her away.
Sophie whispered, “I’ll talk when you call.”
“I’ll listen.”
Olivia stood last.
“You’re coming back?”
“Yes.”
“Promise?”
Every instinct told me to say yes without qualification.
Instead:
“I promise I will do everything I’m allowed to do to come home to you.”
She frowned.
“That’s a lawyer answer.”
“Miriam has ruined me.”
Olivia finally smiled.
Then she hugged me hard.
“Daddy?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t get quiet.”
I understood.
Their silence had been fear.
Mine could become shame.
“I won’t.”
I walked through the door.
It locked behind me.
For the first time in twenty years, nobody cared about the name Dominic Romano.
No private room.
No men stepping aside.
No phone.
No gun.
No empire.
Only consequences.
That first night, I lay on a narrow mattress and remembered the mansion kitchen.
Three girls singing.
Grace laughing.
Isabelle’s portrait.
I had once believed losing power would mean losing myself.
Instead, stripped of everything else, one identity remained.
Father.
And five days after I arrived, a guard called my name.
“Romano. Phone.”
Olivia answered on the second ring.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then she said:
“Daddy, Sophie lost a tooth, Nora got in trouble for singing during math, and Grace burned pancakes.”
I laughed.
The sound echoed off concrete.
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“Tell me everything.”
And she did.
