The “Deceased” Donna Chapter 09
I hadn’t thought John’s words were anything more than words.
Two weeks later, the news was everywhere.
**”Don of the Cromwell Family Breaks Into Riva’s Home—Riva Killed on the Scene, Husband Carr Critically Injured.”**
On television, reporters stood behind police tape.
*”According to police sources, Carr suffered severe damage to his spinal nerves and may never walk again. Astonishingly, John Cromwell, the Don himself, turned himself in immediately afterward and confessed to every charge.”*
Because the case involved interstate money laundering, forged medical records, corrupt agents, and Mafia activity, federal prosecutors took it over.
John refused bail. He refused to let the Cromwell family’s legal team argue him out of it.
I didn’t attend the trial.
The Underboss came by once, standing at the door of the flower shop, voice low. “The Don asked me to bring you a message.”
“I don’t want to hear it,” I said.
He said it anyway.
“He said his last promise—he kept it.”
I clipped a withered rose. “That was his choice.”
The Underboss handed me a manila envelope.
“And this.”
Inside were property transfer documents and a long handwritten letter.
John had left everything clean and legal to me—the restaurants, the real estate, the fund holdings. As for the Cromwell family’s grey businesses, before he turned himself in, he had handed them over to the federal authorities, trading them for the takedown of a whole network of drug-running Capos and corrupt agents.
In the letter, he wrote:
*”Mona, I know you won’t forgive me.”*
*”I know I’ve lied to you too many times.”*
*”I once believed responsibility could stand in for love. That compensation could make up for harm.”*
*”Only later did I understand—what I destroyed was a woman who truly loved me.”*
*”My sins are too great. I don’t deserve to beg you to come back.”*
*”I only hope the rest of your life is safe, free, and happy.”*
I read it through. I didn’t cry.
The afternoon sun spilled across the windowsill. The scent of lilies and daisies filled the shop.
I took out a lighter and set the letter on fire.
The paper curled. The ink disappeared into the flame, letter by letter.
Then I called my lawyer and had every asset he left me donated.
Some to war-zone relief funds.
Some to shelters for women.
Some to those wounded by illegal medical practices.
John would never earn my forgiveness, not in this life.
His love had come too late, and too filthy, to enter my life again.
At dusk, I locked up the flower shop.
The wind swept through the small-town streets. The setting sun turned the windowpanes to gold.
I carried a bouquet of sunflowers and walked slowly home.
For the rest of my life, my only companions would be sunlight, flowers, and myself.
Never him again.