Chapter 10 - THE HOUSE THAT HAD BECOME TOO SMALL
Roman didn't move.
For several seconds, he stared at Elena as though she had announced she was leaving the country.
“Leaving?” he repeated.
Elena nodded.
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“An apartment near the conservatory.”
He looked at me.
I raised both hands.
“Don't look at me. I'm hearing this for the first time.”
Elena smiled.
“I found a place last week.”
Roman's expression tightened.
“You've been looking at apartments without telling me?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I wanted to find out what I liked before everybody started telling me what I needed.”
He opened his mouth.
Then closed it.
Elena continued.
“It's a two-bedroom apartment. The building has an elevator, wide doorways, and an accessible kitchen. There's a small balcony overlooking a courtyard.”
Roman looked toward the window.
“You already signed a lease?”
“Yes.”
“Elena—”
“And before you ask, I've arranged the assistance I want. I interviewed the people myself.”
Roman sat down slowly.
I recognized the expression on his face.
It wasn't anger.
It was fear.
For three years, he had measured his love for his sister by how completely he could protect her.
Now she was asking him to love her without controlling her.
“What if you need something?” he asked.
“I'll ask.”
“What if something happens?”
“I'll handle what I can and call for help when I need it.”
“What about security?”
Elena leaned forward.
“You can visit, Roman. You just have to knock.”
I covered my mouth to hide a smile.
Roman noticed.
“Something funny, Maya?”
“A little.”
Elena laughed.
And after several seconds, Roman smiled, too.
But his eyes were wet.
“I thought having you home meant you were safe.”
Elena reached for his hand.
“I was safe from the outside world, Roman. But I wasn't living in it.”
He lowered his head.
“I don't know how to do this.”
“Then learn with me.”
Three days later, Roman drove Elena to see the apartment.
He insisted on driving himself.
No convoy.
No six bodyguards.
Just the two of them.
When they returned, Elena was carrying paint samples.
Roman was carrying a small shopping bag.
“What did you buy?” I asked.
“A kettle,” he said.
Elena grinned.
“He wanted to buy the entire building.”
“I merely asked whether it was available.”
“He also wanted to replace the elevator.”
“It sounded old.”
“And he offered to hire someone to inspect every window.”
Roman looked at me.
“Is that unreasonable?”
I considered it.
“For a man who used to think sitting on the floor was unusual? You're making progress.”
Elena laughed so hard she nearly dropped her paint samples.
The next morning, she made me an offer.
Not as a DeLuca.
As a woman with a plan.
She wanted to start an independent community music program for people recovering from illness or injury, older adults who missed making music, and children whose families couldn't afford lessons.
She had spoken with several former therapists.
Some were interested in volunteering.
She needed someone to organize schedules, arrange transportation, and make people feel welcome.
“You,” she said.
I blinked.
“Elena, I'm a housekeeper.”
“You're also the first person in three years who made me feel like I could enjoy my own life.”
“That doesn't make me qualified to run a program.”
“No. But your experience working as a rehabilitation aide does. And you know how to organize people without making them feel small.”
I looked down.
I had worked as a rehabilitation aide before my knee injury forced me to take cleaning jobs with steadier hours and fewer lifting requirements.
I hadn't thought about returning to that kind of work in years.
“Elena, I don't want charity.”
“Neither do I.”
She placed a proposed job description on the table.
“Real responsibilities. A real salary. Approved by an independent board. You'd answer to the program, not to my brother.”
I stared at it.
For the first time in years, someone was offering me a future instead of a way to survive another month.
“I'll think about it,” I whispered.
Elena smiled.
“Good.”
But starting the program proved harder than either of us expected.
One local arts organization declined to partner with us.
Another offered space only if the DeLuca family name was removed from every announcement.
A community director explained the problem plainly.
“People respect what Lucia DeLuca tried to do. But they're worried about the family's reputation and the fraud investigation. We can't ask vulnerable families to trust another program without knowing how the money is handled.”
Elena listened without arguing.
When we returned to the mansion, Roman was waiting.
“How much do you need?” he asked.
Elena shook her head.
“This isn't about writing another check.”
“I can cover the expenses.”
“That's exactly the problem.”
Roman frowned.
She placed the rejected partnership letter on the table.
“People don't want another program controlled by somebody powerful who promises to take care of them.”
His expression changed.
Elena's voice softened.
“They want to know someone will listen when something goes wrong.”
Roman read the letter.
Then he looked at me.
“Do you agree?”
“Yes.”
He considered that.
For once, nobody rushed to fill the silence.
Finally, Roman reached into his jacket and removed a folded sheet of paper.
“I've been thinking about what Mom would have wanted.”
He laid it on the table.
It was his signed resignation as chairman of the Open Door Fund.
Elena stared at him.
“Roman?”
“I'm asking the trustees to elect an independent chair and give you the leadership role you're entitled to.”
His voice was steady.
“I'll still be your brother. But I don't need to control your work.”
Elena's eyes filled.
May you like
Then Roman said something that made my heart start pounding.
“And tomorrow, I'm giving the investigators the business records Vincent said I would never dare show them.”
