Chapter 11 - Silence in the Mail
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The morning mail arrived at my home office in a neat, sorted stack. My assistant knew exactly how to categorize everything: corporate contracts in the red folder, foundation donations in the blue, and personal correspondence in the green.
As I flipped through the green folder, my finger paused on a plain white envelope.
The return address bore the unmistakable, sterile stamp of the federal penitentiary where Dominic was currently serving his twenty-year sentence.
I stared at the envelope for a long time. My heart did not race. My palms did not sweat. The old, suffocating panic that used to grip my throat whenever I saw his handwriting was completely, entirely gone.
I picked up my silver letter opener and sliced the envelope open, sliding out a single sheet of lined notebook paper.
"Elena," the letter began. "I know you are angry. But prison has changed me. I see now that I made mistakes. You have the power to talk to the judge and request a sentence reduction based on my good behavior. Think of Leo. A boy needs his father. Let me come home and prove I am a changed man."
I read the pathetic, manipulative words twice. He was still trying to play the same tired game, still relying on guilt and obligation to forge a chain around my neck.
My phone rang, and I answered it on speaker. It was my lead attorney, Sarah.
"Good morning, Elena. I just received a copy of a motion Dominic’s public defender filed," Sarah said, sounding exhausted. "He’s begging for a compassionate release hearing."
"I know," I replied calmly. "He just sent me a letter asking me to advocate for him."
"Do you want me to file a restraining order regarding his mail?" Sarah asked quickly.
"No need," I said, walking over to the heavy paper shredder sitting next to my oak desk. "He has no power here. The letter doesn't even warrant a legal response."
"Are you sure?"
"I am absolutely certain," I smiled.
May you like
I fed the lined paper directly into the shredder, listening to the satisfying, mechanical hum as Dominic’s desperate, manipulative words were instantly destroyed, reduced to meaningless ribbons of white trash.
"Handle the motion, Sarah," I said, watching the shredder stop. "Make sure he stays exactly where he belongs."
