Chapter 9 - THE FAMILY TABLE
ONE YEAR LATER.
The afternoon sun poured through the massive floor-to-ceiling windows of the Lake Shore Drive penthouse, casting warm, golden light across the hardwood floors.
The crystal chandeliers were still there, but the oppressive, heavy atmosphere that used to suffocate the room was gone.
I stood in the kitchen, chopping fresh vegetables, listening to the sound of laughter echoing from the living room.
It was a sound that had become wonderfully common over the past twelve months.
Rosa was serving a life sentence in federal prison, her offshore accounts seized and donated to the charities she had so deeply despised. Marco and Celeste had taken plea deals, trading their freedom for a lifetime behind bars.
Dominic had kept his word. He had systematically dismantled the illegal arms of the Romano family, transitioning the empire into legitimate real estate and philanthropy.
He wasn’t the feared Mafia boss anymore.
He was just Dominic.
I heard small footsteps patter across the floor, and Mia ran into the kitchen, her dark hair flying behind her.
“Claire! Claire, look!”
She held up a piece of thick construction paper.
She wasn’t wearing a blue raincoat, and she certainly wasn’t hiding in the shadows. She was wearing bright yellow overalls and a smile that lit up the entire room.
I wiped my hands on a towel—a floral kitchen towel, not a maid’s apron—and looked at the drawing.
It was done in bright watercolors.
It showed a big table, much like the one in the dining room.
Sitting at the table was a man with dark hair, a little girl, an older woman with gray hair (my mother), and a younger woman with brown hair.
Above the picture, written in neat, cursive letters, was the word: Family.
“It’s beautiful, Mia,” I said, feeling a familiar lump form in my throat. I tapped the drawing. “Is this me?”
“Yes!” she beamed. “Because you sit with us now.”
I wasn’t a housekeeper anymore.
After the nightmare at Pier Nine, Dominic had offered me a position directing the Romano Foundation, a massive charity organization funded by the legitimate family businesses. My mother lived comfortably in her paid-off home in the suburbs, and I had my own office downtown.
But more importantly, I had a place here. Not as staff.
As family.
Dominic walked into the kitchen, wearing a casual gray sweater and jeans. He leaned against the marble island, watching Mia pin the drawing to the refrigerator with a magnet.
“Masterpiece,” Dominic smiled, ruffling his daughter’s hair.
“Uncle Anthony is bringing pizza!” Mia announced, running back toward the living room to watch for his car from the window.
Dominic watched her go, his eyes filled with a quiet, profound peace.
He turned to me.
“You know,” he said softly, stepping closer, “Silvio comes home from the rehab center tomorrow. He asked if you were going to be at Sunday dinner.”
“Of course I’ll be there,” I smiled. “I wouldn’t miss Silvio’s complaints about the wine.”
Dominic chuckled, but his gaze lingered on mine, turning serious, and incredibly warm.
He reached out, his fingers gently brushing a stray lock of hair behind my ear.
“You changed everything, Claire,” he said quietly. “You didn’t just save our lives. You brought the light back into this house.”
My heart did a familiar, fluttering skip. Over the past year, the late-night talks over coffee, the shared trauma, and the mutual love for Mia had forged something deep and unbreakable between us.
“I didn’t do it alone,” I whispered, looking up into his eyes.
Dominic smiled, leaning in just close enough that I could feel the warmth of his breath.
“No,” he agreed softly. “We did it together.”
The front door buzzer rang loudly, breaking the moment.
“Pizza’s here!” Mia shrieked from the hallway.
Dominic laughed, stepping back, holding his hand out to me.
May you like
I took it, his fingers lacing perfectly with mine.
We walked out of the kitchen together, leaving the shadows in the past, and stepping into the bright, noisy, beautiful chaos of a family finally made whole.
