Chapter 11 – THE HEAD OF THE TABLE

The black Mercedes wound its way up the steep cliffs of the Amalfi coast, the ocean crashing violently against the rocks far below.

Lucia sat beside me, looking perfectly at ease in a tailored black suit. I wore a simple white dress, my mother’s charm bracelet clinking softly against my wrist with every turn of the car.

“Nervous?” Lucia asked.

“No,” I realized truthfully. “I’m just curious.”

The car finally pulled through a set of massive iron gates, driving up a long, cypress-lined driveway until we reached an estate that made my Palermo villa look like a guest house. Dozens of men in dark suits stood around the perimeter, their eyes tracking the car.

The driver opened my door. I stepped out, offering a hand to help Lucia.

Standing on the grand stone steps of the estate was an old man leaning heavily on a silver-tipped cane. He had the same kind, weathered eyes as my grandfather, but his posture demanded absolute authority.

He smiled as I approached.

“Sophia,” he said, his voice a rich, gravelly baritone. “Welcome home.”

“Uncle Vincenzo,” I replied, stepping up to meet him.

He kissed both my cheeks, then turned to Lucia. He bowed his head slightly. “Signora Moretti. It is an honor to finally meet the woman who kept my niece alive.”

“The honor is mine, Don Vincenzo,” Lucia replied with a gracious nod.

“Come,” he said, turning toward the massive wooden doors. “Dinner is ready.”

He led us through the palatial home, into a dining room that took my breath away. It was easily twice the size of the one in Chicago. A massive oak table stretched across the room, set with fine china and crystal.

But unlike the Moretti table, which had been crowded with twenty-four loud, backstabbing relatives, this table was empty.

There were only three chairs.

One at the end, and two on the sides.

Vincenzo gestured for Lucia to take one of the side chairs. A servant immediately pulled it out for her.

Then, Vincenzo turned to me. He didn’t walk toward the head of the table.

Instead, he gestured toward it, offering it to me.

“Uncle?” I asked, confused. “That’s your seat.”

“It was,” Vincenzo smiled gently. “But I am old, Sophia. And the syndicate needs new blood. Someone with the cunning to outsmart the Chicago commission, the ruthlessness to dismantle a boss without firing a shot, and the heart to protect an old woman who isn’t even her own blood.”

He placed his hand on my shoulder.

“Your grandfather and I built this empire so that one day, you would never have to bow to anyone again. The seat is yours.”

I looked at the heavy, carved oak chair at the head of the table. I thought of Matteo, who had tried to keep me small. I thought of Bianca, who had tried to humiliate me.

I walked to the head of the table.

I didn’t wait for a servant to pull the chair out. I pulled it out myself, and I sat down.

Lucia raised her wine glass toward me, her eyes shining with pride. Vincenzo sat to my right, nodding in approval.

“So,” I said, looking at my family. “Let’s talk business.”