There was much rejoicing and much to-do was made over the whole affair. Vito was indifferent to it all, having done similar things dozens of times before. He only wished the reporters would stop clustering around his house and making a ruckus long into the night. He was a cop. Cops didn't want everyone in the city to know their faces. They just wanted to do their jobs.
The only thing that worried him was Christy. He wasn't sure why she insisted on sticking with Carver's stooge. If it had been up to him, Sean would have been in jail as soon as the body cast came off, but Christy stuck up for him. He couldn't prove Sean was involved, she said. For all he knew, Sean wandered past the building, tried to help her, and ran afoul of Carver. Vito was not that stupid, but there was a lack of evidence. Whatever his role, he had done his best to help his daughter, so Vito didn't look as deeply as he could have into the whole affair.
It was obvious the boy couldn't go back to Ireland. He had made an enemy of one of the country's most notorious terrorists. Carver was dead, but others would spring up in his place. With Christy as a character witness, a media who thought Sean was a hero who tried to help her, and Vito begrudgingly assisting with paperwork, Sean was soon granted political asylum. Christy got him a job at an electronics store and to Vito's horror, Sean found an apartment less than thirty miles from their house. Vito promptly became even more reluctant to teach her to drive. When Christy pointed out that Sean, at seventeen, had his license and could teach her instead, he changed his mind. His expressions on their all-too-frequent trips to Sean's house communicated at once his disdain for the relationship, his minuscule satisfaction that he was there to supervise, and his latent rage waiting for Sean to make a misstep. And, last of all, his pride that his little girl was learning to drive.
