Chapter 10 – A SEAT AT THE TABLE

Margaret’s house was warm, smelling intensely of rosemary, garlic, and roasting meat.

The moment Luca walked through the front door, Margaret, looking much frailer than she had five years ago but with eyes just as sharp, burst into tears. She slapped Luca lightly on the cheek—a mother’s scolding—before pulling him into a fierce embrace.

“Don’t you ever make me raise a teenager by myself again, you idiot,” she sobbed into his shoulder.

Luca held her tightly, burying his face in her silver hair. “I promise, Margaret. I’m here.”

Dinner was loud, chaotic, and wonderful.

There was no stuttering. There was no fear. There were no silent, terrifying expectations hanging over the table.

We laughed, we ate, and we watched a father relearn his son.

After dinner, Margaret dozed off in her armchair by the fireplace, and Daniel went upstairs to video chat with his friends.

I was in the kitchen, washing the dishes. The warm water felt soothing over my hands.

“I can do that, you know.”

I turned. Luca was leaning against the doorframe, his sleeves rolled up, looking completely relaxed for the first time since I had met him.

“You just got out of federal prison, Luca. I think you’ve earned a night off from chores,” I smiled, turning back to the sink.

He walked up beside me, picking up a dish towel and grabbing a wet plate from the drying rack.

“I’m not a boss anymore, Emma,” he said quietly, drying the plate with careful, deliberate motions. “I surrendered the business before I went inside. The syndicate was dismantled. The money I have left is legitimate. Real estate. Investments.”

I looked at him. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me.”

“I want to,” he said, turning to face me. “I spent five years in a cell thinking about the night I almost got you killed. Thinking about how I used you.”

“You saved my life that night,” I reminded him softly. “You took a bullet for me.”

“It doesn’t balance the scales,” Luca said, his eyes intensely focused on mine. “It never will.”

He set the plate down and stepped closer.

“You spent your entire youth taking care of other people, Emma. Your mother. Me. Daniel.” He reached out, his fingers gently brushing a stray lock of hair behind my ear. The touch sent a shockwave down my spine. “Who takes care of you?”

I looked up into his dark eyes, my breath catching in my throat. “I take care of myself.”

Luca smiled, a soft, melancholy expression. “I know you do. You’re the strongest woman I’ve ever met.”

He took a step back, giving me space, respecting the boundary between us.

“I bought a house,” Luca said, changing the subject, though his eyes never left mine. “Not a mansion. Just a normal house in the suburbs. Good school district for Daniel. A big backyard.”

“That sounds perfect,” I said honestly.

“It’s empty,” he said. “It needs furniture. It needs life.”

He hesitated, looking suddenly vulnerable. The former king of Chicago, terrified to ask a question.

“Daniel asked me if you were going to come over for dinner on Sunday,” Luca said softly. “I told him I didn’t know. I told him you have your own life now. Your nursing career.”

I dried my hands on the towel, my heart beating a little faster.

“I do have my own life,” I said carefully.

Luca nodded, looking down at the floor. “Of course. I shouldn’t have—”

“But,” I interrupted, stepping toward him. “I don’t work on Sundays.”

Luca’s head snapped up.

“And,” I added, a small smile playing on my lips, “I happen to know you burn everything you try to cook. So unless you want Daniel eating burnt toast for his first Sunday dinner in his new home, I should probably be there.”

The relief that washed over Luca’s face was so profound it made my chest ache.

He didn’t grab me. He didn’t pull me into a melodramatic embrace.

He just smiled, his dark eyes shining with a quiet, overwhelming hope.

“I would really like that, Emma.”

“Good,” I said softly.

We stood there in the warm, quiet kitchen, the sounds of the fire crackling in the living room and Daniel laughing upstairs echoing around us.

I wasn’t a maid. He wasn’t a mob boss.

We were just two people, bruised by the past, standing in the light, finally ready to see what the future held.

TITLE: THE BEDTIME STORY

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