THE MAFIA BOSS WATCHED ME CUT A PLASTIC ZIP TIE FROM HIS SEVENTY-YEAR-OLD HOUSEKEEPER'S WRISTS DURING HIS ENGAGEMENT DINNER—THEN HIS FIANCÉE SAID, “SHE WAS CAUGHT STEALING MY DIAMONDS,” BEFORE HE EVEN ASKED WHY THE WOMAN WHO HAD RAISED HIM WAS CRYING IN FRONT OF TWENTY-FOUR GUESTS. -

Chapter 8 – THE SEAT OF HONOR

The storm finally broke, giving way to a crisp, clear Chicago morning.

The estate had been scrubbed clean. The broken glass was swept away, the blood washed from the marble.

In the grand dining room, sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating the long mahogany table.

This time, it wasn’t set for twenty-four wealthy, superficial guests.

It was set for six.

Mrs. Carter sat at the absolute head of the table.

She wore a beautiful, tailored navy-blue dress that Luca had personally ordered for her. The zip-tie marks on her wrists were fading, replaced by a stunning, custom-made diamond tennis bracelet that caught the morning light with every movement.

It was Luca’s way of ensuring the hands that raised him were adorned with respect, never restraints.

To her right sat my mother, looking rested and healthy, sipping tea from a delicate china cup. Luca had transferred her care to the best private physicians in the state, completely wiping out our family’s medical debt.

Across from her sat Vanessa.

Or rather, Chloe.

She looked entirely different without the heavy makeup and the designer gowns. She wore a simple, comfortable sweater. The FBI had granted her full immunity in exchange for her testimony against Salvatore. She was leaving tomorrow for a trauma facility in Switzerland, fully funded by Luca, to begin the long process of healing and reclaiming her stolen life.

And then, there was Eleanor.

She sat next to Luca, holding his hand above the table.

She looked frail but radiant, her dark eyes shining with an inner peace she hadn’t known in four decades.

Luca sat quietly, wearing a simple button-down shirt. The heavy, suffocating aura of the mob boss was gone. He had officially stepped down from the syndicate, handing the operations over to the Commission and transitioning his remaining assets into legitimate real estate.

He was finally free.

I stood near the kitchen doors, wearing my black maid’s uniform, smiling as I watched them.

It was a perfect, satisfying end.

The truth was exposed. The villains were punished. The family was whole.

I turned to push through the swinging doors to grab the dessert tray, but Luca’s voice stopped me.

“Olivia.”

I paused, turning back.

“Yes, Mr. Moretti?”

He stood up and walked over to me.

“Take off the apron.”

I blinked, confused. “Sir?”

He gently reached out and untied the strings of my apron, pulling it over my head.

“You don’t work for me anymore,” Luca said softly, his dark eyes filled with immense gratitude. “You saved my mother. You saved my life. You’re not an employee, Olivia. You’re family.”

He gestured to the empty chair beside him.

“Sit down.”

Tears welled in my eyes. I looked at my mother, who nodded, beaming with pride.

I walked to the table and took my seat next to the man I had served for eleven months.

We ate. We laughed. We celebrated the end of a nightmare.

But as the afternoon sun began to dip below the horizon, my mind wandered back to the parchment that had fallen from Salvatore’s broken cane.

The will.

My father’s will.

My father had been a Chicago beat cop who died in a mugging when I was three years old. He had no money, no assets, and no connection to the mafia.

Why would the head of the syndicate hide my father’s will inside his cane?

After dinner, while the others moved to the drawing room, I slipped into Luca’s private study.

I had hidden the parchment inside a hollowed-out book on his desk.

I pulled it out and unrolled it under the brass desk lamp.

It was officially notarized, dated twenty-three years ago.

I, Thomas Bennett, being of sound mind, do hereby leave the contents of Safe Deposit Box 814 at First Chicago Fidelity to my daughter, Olivia Bennett, upon her twenty-sixth birthday.

I stared at the paper.

My twenty-sixth birthday was last month.

But the final line of the document made my breath catch in my throat.

The witness signature at the bottom.

Giovanni Moretti.

I didn’t hear the study door open.

“I thought I might find you in here,” Luca said quietly, stepping into the room.

I turned around, holding the parchment.

“Luca,” I whispered, using his first name for the first time. “My father knew Giovanni.”