Chapter 11

Sunday dinner at the Moretti estate was a tradition that had spanned three generations.

For seven years, I had dreaded it. It was a weekly performance of fake smiles, subtle insults, and unspoken threats.

Today, it was different.

The mahogany table was set for twelve, not twenty-five. The sycophants, the mistresses, and the treacherous uncles had been permanently uninvited.

I sat at the head of the table. The seat that had belonged to Antonio, and briefly, to Julian.

Adelaide sat to my right, sipping her red wine with a contented smile. Marcus Vance sat to my left, having evolved from the family lawyer to my most trusted advisor. The remaining cousins—the ones who ran the legitimate shipping routes and charities—filled the rest of the seats.

The atmosphere was light. Genuine laughter echoed off the crystal chandeliers.

“So, Evelyn,” cousin Mateo asked, leaning forward. “The new shipping contracts in Boston. Are we moving forward?”

“We are,” I said, cutting into my roast. “But we’re unionizing the warehouse workers before we sign. No more under-the-table intimidation. If we’re going legitimate, we’re doing it right.”

Mateo nodded respectfully. “Antonio would have called you crazy.”

“Antonio isn’t here,” I smiled. “And it’s highly profitable in the long term.”

As dinner wound down, the housekeeper, Maria, came out with the dessert plates. She paused by my chair, looking slightly nervous.

“Ma’am?” she whispered.

“Yes, Maria?”

“There’s a letter that arrived for you yesterday. I forgot to put it in the study. It’s from the county correctional facility.”

The table went quiet.

She handed me a cheap, white envelope. The handwriting was Julian’s. Hasty, desperate.

I didn’t even open it.

I stood up, walked over to the grand fireplace crackling in the corner of the dining room, and tossed the unopened envelope directly into the flames.

We all watched as the paper curled, blackened, and turned to ash.

“Dessert looks wonderful, Maria,” I said, returning to my seat. “Thank you.”

Adelaide raised her wineglass.

“To family,” the old woman said, her eyes shining with pride as she looked at me.

I touched the gold sunburst necklace at my throat, feeling the weight of my father’s silver watch in my pocket. I was safe. I was respected. I was exactly where I was meant to be.

I raised my glass, the crystal catching the light.

“To family.”