Chapter 9 - The Shadow Of The Past
(Three Months Later)
The DeLuca cellar was quiet.
I stood by the tasting table, carefully cataloging a newly arrived shipment of Barolo. The inventory tablet in my hand felt natural, a far cry from the feather duster I used to carry.
Elias walked into the room, carrying a clipboard.
“Shipment looks good, boss,” he smiled, tapping the clipboard.
I rolled my eyes playfully. “Stop calling me boss, Elias. We’re partners.”
“Habit,” he chuckled, setting the clipboard down. “You look happy, Megan.”
“I am,” I admitted.
And it was true. The last three months had been a whirlwind of legal documents, trust fund transfers, and stepping into my father’s shoes as co-owner of the DeLuca enterprise. Roman had insisted on complete transparency.
We worked side by side every day. The dangerous mafia undercurrents of his life had quieted down. With the Morettis dismantled, Roman was transitioning the family strictly into legitimate imports and real estate.
For me. For Lily.
“Speaking of partners,” Elias said, his eyes twinkling. “Roman is looking for you upstairs. He said to tell you the architect brought the new vineyard blueprints.”
My heart did a little flutter. It always did when Roman’s name was mentioned.
Our relationship had evolved into a deep, unshakable bond. We hadn’t crossed the line into romance yet, but the tension between us was palpable. Every lingering look, every brush of his hand against mine.
I left the cellar and walked upstairs to Roman’s massive office.
The door was slightly ajar.
I pushed it open. “Hey, Elias said you had the blue—”
I stopped.
Roman wasn’t looking at blueprints.
He was standing behind his desk, holding a torn, yellowed photograph.
His face was ashen. The peaceful demeanor he had carried for three months was entirely gone.
He looked exactly like he had the night the shooting started.
“Roman?” I asked, my pulse quickening. “What is it?”
He didn’t answer. He just stared at the photo.
I walked around the desk.
I looked at the photograph in his hand.
It was a picture of a younger Roman, standing next to his father.
And standing behind them, smiling warmly, was a woman.
She looked exactly like me.
But it wasn’t me. The photo was dated thirty years ago.
“Who is that?” I whispered.
Roman slowly turned to me. His eyes were wide with shock.
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“That,” Roman said, his voice trembling, “is my mother.”
TITLE: The Lie We Lived
