It was not an invitation for reconciliation, nor was it an offer of family; it was the gracious salute of an emperor to an exile.
In the distance beneath the oaks, Vincent Moretti closed his eyes, his shoulders shuddering as he received the only grace he would ever earn.
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Vincent nodded back, turned slowly on his heel, and walked into the quiet streets of Cambridge, disappearing into the summer morning.
Noah looked back down at me, his smile bright and unburdened by the ghosts of Chicago or the millions of Moretti Capital.
“Come on, Director Bennett,” Noah said, offering me his arm with that easy, aristocratic warmth that belonged only to him.
“I believe we have a celebratory table reserved at the restaurant by the river,” he added with a joyful laugh.
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I took my son’s arm, stepping onto the sunlit grass of Harvard Yard, feeling the solid, unyielding earth beneath my feet.
