Chương 12 - THE DINNER TABLE
Six months later.
The dining room of the Moretti mansion was loud. It was a chaotic, beautiful kind of loud that would have given Vanessa Bellini an aneurysm.
It was Leo’s twelfth birthday.
The grand mahogany table was covered not in white roses and champagne, but in wrapping paper, pizza boxes, and a massive chocolate cake.
Leo was sitting at the head of the table, wearing a brand-new baseball cap, tearing into a brightly wrapped box.
Sitting to his right was my father, sitting comfortably in his specialized wheelchair. He was holding a slice of cake, smiling brightly as he watched his grandson rip the paper away. His speech had improved drastically; he could form full sentences now, though he still preferred to let his expressions do the talking.
“Open mine next, buddy!” Marcus, the head of security, called out from the end of the table, holding up a flat rectangular box. He had become an uncle figure to Leo over the last few months.
“Wait, wait, let him finish this one,” I laughed, walking out of the kitchen carrying a stack of plates.
I was wearing a simple emerald green dress. Around my neck rested the diamond pendant Luca had given me.
I set the plates down and felt a pair of strong arms wrap around my waist from behind.
Luca rested his chin on my shoulder, pressing a soft kiss to my neck.
“You’ve got flour on your cheek, Mrs. Moretti,” he whispered against my skin.
I smiled, leaning back into his solid warmth. We had been married for two months in a tiny, private ceremony on the coast of Italy. Just us, Leo, and my dad.
“I was fighting with the powdered sugar,” I admitted, turning my head to catch his lips in a quick kiss.
“Ew! Gross! Dad, Aunt Emma, stop!” Leo groaned dramatically from the head of the table, covering his eyes with his hands.
“She’s your stepmom now, kid, you better get used to it,” Marcus chuckled, tossing his gift box across the table.
Luca released me, laughing, and walked over to sit next to his son.
I took a step back, just watching them for a moment.
Luca Moretti, the feared Don of the Chicago syndicate, was currently wearing a paper party hat and helping an eleven-year-old assemble a complex Lego set.
My father was sitting next to him, sipping coffee, looking completely at peace.
I looked toward the hallway. Hanging securely on a custom oak coat rack by the study door was the faded green Army jacket.
It wasn’t a symbol of betrayal anymore. We had taken the darkness out of it. It was a reminder of where we had come from, and the truth that had set us free.
“Emma!” Luca called out, looking up from the Legos. He held out his hand to me. “Come here. We can’t figure out step four.”
I smiled, the warmth in my chest expanding until I thought I might float.
I walked over, taking his hand, and sat down at the table surrounded by my family.
I wasn’t a housekeeper anymore. I wasn’t a girl struggling to survive.
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I was Emma Moretti.
And for the first time in my entire life, I was finally home.
