Chapter 17 - The Friday Max Finally Waited for Me Instead

Three weeks later, Hawthorne Junction held Thomas Rowan’s memorial in the station he had spent most of his life keeping on schedule.

Cece had resisted the idea.

Dale ignored her.

“He deserves better than a six-year-old accident report,” he said.

So they placed a photograph of Thomas beside the departures board.

Not the official portrait from the railroad.

A ridiculous family picture from a summer barbecue, her father squinting at the camera while holding a burnt hamburger.

Cece approved.

Eleanor came from protective housing with two federal agents.

She stood beside Cece beneath the clock that had hidden the second archive.

“I should have come back after your mother died,” Eleanor said.

“Yes.”

The older woman flinched.

Cece continued.

“I’m not saying that to punish you. I’m saying I needed you.”

“I was afraid.”

“I know.”

“I thought distance kept you safe.”

“That appears to be our family religion.”

Eleanor laughed softly.

Then Cece hugged her.

Not forgiveness completed.

A door opened.

That was enough.

Sofia attended too.

She and Max stood awkwardly beside the coffee counter until Dale handed them both paper cups and said, “Family reconciliation costs two dollars each.”

Sofia looked at Max.

“Is everyone here like this?”

“Yes.”

Cece heard him and smiled.

When the memorial ended, reporters waited outside.

Max refused to enter through the back.

He walked beside Cece through the front doors.

Questions flew.

“Mr. Corvelli, are you cooperating with federal investigators?”

“Will you be charged?”

“Did your company move stolen pharmaceuticals?”

“Are you still head of the Corvelli organization?”

Max stopped.

Cece felt every camera turn.

He answered only the last question.

“I’m president of Corvelli Commercial Refrigeration. Anything outside the lawful operation of that company is being dismantled.”

A reporter shouted, “Are you saying there was a criminal organization?”

Max’s mouth tightened.

“I’m saying I inherited things I should have ended sooner.”

His attorney looked like he might faint.

Max continued.

“I cannot repair that by pretending it did not exist.”

Then he walked away.

Cece caught up beside the platform.

“Your lawyer hates me now.”

“My lawyer hated me before you.”

“Comforting.”

He handed her an envelope.

“What’s this?”

“A proposal.”

She stopped.

Max’s eyes widened.

“Business proposal.”

“Your timing nearly killed me.”

“I noticed.”

Inside was a draft charter for the Thomas and Margaret Rowan Transit Safety Fund.

Cece read it twice.

The fund would support whistleblower legal aid, transport-worker safety, and emergency housing for people displaced while reporting organized crime.

The starting contribution was enormous.

She looked up.

“No.”

Max blinked.

“No?”

“Not with their names.”

“Why?”

“Because you don’t get to clean Corvelli money by polishing my parents’ names onto it.”

His expression changed.

Most people, Cece realized, did not say no to him often.

She kept going.

“If you want restitution, call it restitution.”

He was silent.

“Let the people harmed by your family help decide where it goes.”

Another silence.

Then he nodded.

“All right.”

“That easy?”

“No.”

“But you agree?”

“Yes.”

She smiled slightly.

“You’re learning.”

“Painfully.”

Federal prosecutors announced cooperation agreements the following week.

Max was not charged with Thomas’s murder or the forged authorizations. Investigators confirmed Vittorio had used his stolen credentials.

But other matters remained.

Tax violations tied to inherited shell companies.

Unreported cash transactions.

Payments Max admitted approving without asking enough questions.

His attorneys predicted fines, monitored restructuring, and possible probation if he continued cooperating.

Max did not ask Cece to celebrate.

Instead he came to the station on Friday at four.

Same bench.

Same black coffee.

No rain.

Cece sat beside him.

“Why are you here?”

“Habit.”

“The train arrives in seven minutes.”

“I know.”

“Are you waiting for Sofia?”

“No.”

“Then who?”

He looked at her.

“You.”

She stared.

“I work here.”

“I know.”

“That removes most of the suspense.”

“I’m trying something new.”

The 4:17 arrived.

People stepped off.

Sofia was not among them because she was already in town, staying temporarily at a small apartment Claire had helped arrange.

Max did not scan the faces.

For the first time, he looked at Cece instead.

Her heart beat harder.

“You spent eleven years waiting for someone to come back,” she said.

“Yes.”

“You cannot make me into another person you wait for.”

“I don’t want to.”

“What do you want?”

His voice dropped.

“To ask you to dinner.”

Cece blinked.

“That is offensively normal.”

“I practiced.”

“Marcus?”

“Sofia.”

“That explains why it’s less threatening than usual.”

Max smiled.

Cece thought about the last month.

About danger, evidence, grief, and the dangerous intimacy of surviving something together.

She did not want survival to make the decision for her.

So she asked herself what she wanted when nobody was shooting, lying, disappearing, or bleeding.

The answer came quietly.

“Yes.”

Max’s smile faded into something softer.

“Yes?”

“One dinner.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Slow down, organized crime.”

He laughed.

It was the first time Cece had heard him laugh without bitterness.

She liked the sound.

Then the station loudspeaker announced a delay.

Max looked toward the ceiling.

“Can I buy the railroad now?”

“No.”

“A small section?”

“No.”

“Your management style is restrictive.”

Cece stood.

“Saturday. Seven.”

He rose beside her.

“Should I bring an umbrella?”

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She looked at the clear sky.

“With you, probably.”