Chapter 9 - THE FAMILY TABLE
The darkness only lasted three seconds before the emergency generators kicked in, bathing the room in harsh red light.
Adrian didn’t hesitate. He grabbed an oxygen tank and smashed it through the reinforced glass window. But before he could climb through, the hallway erupted in chaos.
Gunfire. Shouts. The heavy thud of bodies hitting the floor.
I pulled David from the bed, shielding him in the corner.
When the noise finally stopped, the door was kicked open. Standing in the doorway, breathing heavily, was Leo Valenti. He held a stolen rifle, and behind him stood the true loyalists of the Valenti family.
Dominic lay bleeding on the floor, groaning in pain.
"You forgot one thing, Dominic," Leo said, his voice echoing with absolute authority. "I'm the older brother."
One week later, the Valenti estate was flooded with sunlight.
The smell of garlic, roasted lamb, and fresh bread filled the massive dining room. But things were different now.
I wasn't wearing a maid's uniform. I wore a beautiful silk dress. David sat next to me, his arm in a sling, laughing as little Toby showed him a new drawing of a superhero.
Leo sat at the right side of the table, his color returning, a father finally reunited with his son. Adrian sat at the left, looking more peaceful than I had ever seen him.
And at the very head of the table, sitting in the grand, carved wooden chair that once belonged to the mafia don, sat Mama Ruth.
She wore a beautiful new diamond bracelet.
Adrian raised his glass of wine.
"To family," Adrian said, looking directly at me. "Blood and chosen."
We all raised our glasses. The truth was out. Sloane was in federal custody, Dominic was gone, and the estate had been legally transferred to my name, though I insisted the Valentis stay. We were sharing it. We were repairing what the past had broken. Toby was safe, eating mashed potatoes and leaning happily against Ruth's arm.
It was the perfect, happy ending.
Until after dinner, when I went into the library to put a book away.
I opened the top drawer of the antique desk to grab a bookmark. Inside, sitting neatly on top of the old ledgers, was a single, one-way train ticket to Chicago.
The passenger name printed on it was Thomas Morgan.
It was dated for tonight.
"Beautiful desk, isn't it?" a voice said from the shadows of the library.
May you like
I spun around.
Standing by the fireplace was the detective who had investigated my father’s "accidental" death twenty years ago.
