Chapter 8 – THE HEAD OF THE TABLE

Carmine’s face turned the color of ash.

Vincent looked at me in pure shock. “How did you…?”

“While you were playing the villain, I was paying attention,” I said, looking down at Carmine. “She dropped the phone when the lights cut out. I saw the unsent message on the screen.”

Nonna Vittoria stepped forward, leaning on her cane. She looked down at her nephew with absolute disgust.

“You have lost, Carmine,” Nonna said. “Your men are at an empty house. Your niece has abandoned you. And tonight, you will leave Chicago and never return. If I see your face again, I won’t wait for Vincent to handle it. I will call the old families myself.”

Carmine scrambled backward, clutching his broken wrist. He looked at Vincent, then at the door, before finally stumbling out into the night, utterly defeated.

The heavy doors clicked shut behind him.

The silence in the dining room felt different this time. It wasn’t suffocating. It was clear.

Vincent slowly stood up. He walked over to me, his chest heaving. Without a word, he dropped to his knees right there on the ruined rug.

He took my hands, pressing them to his forehead. He was crying.

“I don’t deserve you,” he sobbed. “I don’t deserve your strength, or your forgiveness. I humiliated you in front of our family. I let them treat you like nothing.”

I looked down at him. I remembered the pain of the last few hours, but I also saw the terrible burden he had been carrying alone.

“You should have trusted me,” I said quietly.

“I know,” he whispered. “I will spend the rest of my life proving that to you. I will earn my place beside you, Sarah.”

I gently pulled him to his feet. “Where is Leo, Vincent?”

He swallowed hard. “He’s upstairs. In the secret nursery behind my office. He’s been there all week.”

Ten minutes later, Vincent brought the little boy down. Leo had dark hair like his father and big, terrified brown eyes. He was clutching a small stuffed bear.

He looked at Vincent, then at me.

I knelt down so I was eye-level with him. I didn’t push. I just offered a small, gentle smile.

“Hi, Leo,” I said softly. “I’m Sarah. Are you hungry? I made some really good roasted potatoes.”

Leo looked at his dad. Vincent nodded, tears in his eyes.

The little boy took a hesitant step forward, then another. Finally, he reached out and took my hand. It was tiny and warm.

“I’m hungry,” he whispered.

I stood up and led him to the mahogany table. I pulled out a chair for him.

Then, I walked over to the head of the table. Vincent’s chair.

I looked at my husband. He nodded, stepping back respectfully.

I sat down at the head of the table.

We were a family. And nobody would ever take my seat again.

But as I pulled a napkin onto my lap, my foot brushed against something under the table.

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