Chapter 11 – THE SEAMSTRESS AT THE HEAD OF THE TABLE

Two years later.

The grand dining room of the Moretti estate was ablaze with light. The crystal chandeliers sparkled, the silver cutlery gleamed, and the long oak table was overflowing with a feast that smelled of roasted garlic, rich tomato sauce, and expensive wine.

It was Sunday dinner.

But the room looked very different from the night Vanessa had tried to destroy us.

There were no stuffy, silent mafia associates. There were no terrified waitstaff hovering by the walls.

Instead, the room was filled with laughter.

At one end of the table sat Luca Moretti, laughing loudly as he poured a glass of red wine for a beautiful, elegant woman sitting beside him. Her name was Elena, a brilliant architect he had met eight months ago. She was kind, fiercely intelligent, and she adored Leo.

Leo was now eight years old. He was sitting across from Luca, arguing passionately about baseball with Marco, who had apparently designated himself the boy’s unofficial uncle and bodyguard.

Beside Leo sat my mother.

She looked healthy, her color back, laughing at a joke Marco made. The Moretti doctors had saved her life, and Luca had insisted she move into a small, beautiful cottage on the estate grounds so I could remain close to her while I managed the household.

And then there was me.

I was sitting next to my mother, holding hands under the table with Thomas, the estate’s head of security. We were getting married in three months.

I was going to wear the dress.

But the most important person in the room wasn’t Luca.

At the absolute head of the long oak table, sitting in the grand, carved chair, was Helen Bellini.

She wore a beautiful, tailored emerald green dress—a dress she had finally made for herself. Around her neck rested a simple, elegant silver chain holding Arthur’s tarnished pocket watch. She had refused to fix the shattered glass; she said it was perfect exactly the way it stopped.

She was seventy years old now, but she looked radiant. She ruled this family not with fear, but with absolute, unconditional love.

“Grandma Helen!” Leo called out over the noise of the table. “Tell Marco he’s wrong! The Cubs are the best!”

Helen smiled, raising her glass of sparkling water. “In this house, Leo, we respect all opinions. But Marco is definitely wrong.”

The table erupted in laughter. Marco groaned, burying his face in his hands, while Leo cheered victoriously.

Luca looked down the table at Helen. The fierce, protective love in the mafia boss’s eyes was undeniable.

“A toast,” Luca announced, standing up and raising his wine glass.

The table went quiet. Everyone raised their glasses.

Luca looked at the people gathered around the table. He looked at my mother, at me, at Elena, and finally, at Helen.

“To family,” Luca said softly. “The one we are born with, and the one we choose. To honor. And to the hands that built this life for us.”

He raised his glass toward Helen.

“To Arthur and Helen,” Luca declared.

“To Arthur and Helen!” the table echoed warmly.

We drank.

Helen wiped a joyful tear from her eye. She looked around the magnificent room, at the people who loved her fiercely, and then she looked at me.

She gave me a small, secret smile.

She didn’t need to speak. I knew exactly what she was thinking.

The hands that had spent thirty-eight years quietly fixing torn seams and mending broken things had finally stitched together something completely unbreakable.

She had stitched together a family.

And this time, the seams would hold forever.