Chapter 9 - THE EMPIRE OF MEAT AND BLOOD
Six months later.
The smell of roasting garlic and fresh basil filled the air, but it wasn't the stifling, oppressive scent of Trattoria Delombra. It was warm, inviting, and smelled like home.
I wiped my hands on my pristine white apron—custom-tailored to fit my curves perfectly—and surveyed the dining room.
Katarina’s was packed.
Every table was full of laughing families, clinking wine glasses, and the joyful chaos of a true Italian kitchen. There were no velvet ropes. There were no mobsters making backroom deals. Just good food, loud music, and light.
"Table four needs more bread, boss," a voice called out.
I turned and smiled. Beatrice was clearing a table, wearing a standard waitress uniform. The plea deal I had arranged for her kept her out of prison, but only under the strict condition that she work for me, at minimum wage, doing exactly what she had tortured me for doing. She hated it. I loved it.
"Agility and discretion, Beatrice," I winked at her. "Keep moving."
She grumbled and scurried toward the kitchen.
I walked to the back booth, the best seat in the house. Sitting there was my mother, looking relaxed and radiant in a soft yellow dress, coloring with crayons on a paper placemat.
Next to her sat Sofia. She wore a bright red ribbon in her hair and a smear of marinara sauce on her cheek.
"How is it?" I asked, kissing the top of Sofia’s head.
"Best spaghetti ever, Auntie Claret," Sofia beamed, holding up a drawing. It was the three of us, holding hands. No hiding. No shadows.
"Masterpiece," I smiled, feeling a warmth in my chest that I never thought I’d experience. We had won. Salvatore was rotting in a maximum-security federal prison, stripped of his power, his wealth, and his dignity. The syndicate had been dissolved, the illicit funds donated to local orphanages and battered women's shelters.
I had taken the throne, only to immediately dismantle the empire.
I felt a pair of strong arms wrap around my waist from behind. A warm chin rested on my shoulder.
"You're hovering," Vincent teased, kissing my neck.
I leaned back into him, completely relaxed. He was wearing a casual linen shirt, the scars on his side fully healed. He had survived the freezer shootout, taking a bullet to the shoulder but holding Beatrice's men off long enough for the police to arrive.
He wasn't a Don anymore. He was just Vincent. My partner in life, and my partner in the restaurant.
"I'm not hovering, I'm managing," I laughed, turning in his arms.
"You're beautiful," he said, looking at me with that same burning hunger he had the night we met. But now, there was no danger in it. Only love.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, velvet box.
My heart skipped a beat.
He opened it. Inside wasn't a diamond ring. It was a silver rosary—the wolf crest of the Vela line, polished to a brilliant shine.
"Your mother gave me her blessing," Vincent said softly. "But I know you don't need a ring to know you're a queen. You wear your crown every day."
He fastened the chain around my neck. The cool silver settled against my skin, right next to the one Nona Katarina had given me.
I looked at Vincent, then at my mother, and finally at Sofia, who was giggling at us.
I used to think my size was my greatest weakness. I thought the world was right to try and make me invisible. But as I stood in my own restaurant, surrounded by the family I had fought for and the man I loved, I knew the truth.
I wasn't a waitress who took up too much space.
May you like
I was Claret Vela. And this was exactly the amount of space I was meant to occupy.
"Come on," I smiled, grabbing Vincent’s hand and pulling him toward the kitchen. "We have a family to feed."
