Chapter 9 - THE SUNDAY DINNERThe autumn sunlight streamed through the tall stained-glass windows of the Moretti dining room, casting warm pools of amber and blue across the polished mahogany table.
There was no red satin dress.
There were no terrified business associates whispering in corners, and no corporate lawyers hovering near the doors.
Instead, the table was set with the good china—the cream-and-gold set Luca’s mother had given us on our wedding day.
At the center of the table sat a crystal platter holding twenty-four deviled eggs, dusted lightly with paprika, made with just a little too much mustard, exactly the way Anthony liked them.
Little Charlotte sat in a booster seat right between her father and her grandfather, happily swinging her legs while using her spoon to tap against her water glass.
"Grandpa," Charlotte asked loudly, her voice carrying across the quiet room. "Are we going to live here forever?"
Luca looked down at her, his arm resting securely over the back of her chair, before raising his gaze to meet mine across the table.
"Forever, sweetheart," Luca said, his voice warm and steady. "And nobody is ever going to tell you you don't belong at this table again."
Anthony smiled, reaching across to fill my water glass before pouring a glass of sparkling cider for Olivia.
The front doors of the mansion were unlocked. The estate guards had been dismissed for the afternoon, replaced by the quiet, ordinary sounds of family life—the clinking of silverware, the soft murmur of conversation, and the bright, unburdened laughter of a child who finally knew she was safe.
As I sat back in my chair, looking around the room at the people I loved most in the world, I realized something important.
Empires could be built, lost, and rebuilt. Fortunes could change hands through shell companies and fraudulent deeds. But a family wasn't defined by the name on a land trust or the size of a mansion under the crystal chandeliers.
It was defined by the people who showed up when you needed them, the ones who remembered your favorite recipes, and the love that stayed behind long after the noise had faded away.
"Pass the deviled eggs, Mom," Anthony said, holding out his plate with a grin.
May you like
I smiled, picked up the platter, and handed it to my son.
And for the first time in fourteen months, the house on Moretti estate felt entirely, perfectly like home.
