Chapter 8 – THE SEAT AT THE TABLE

Two weeks later.

The mansion smelled like lemon polish and fresh lilies. The damage from the basement water had been repaired, the broken glass swept away, and the suffocating tension that used to choke the hallways was gone.

Marcus had been arrested that night. Without Vanessa to execute the cartel upload, he had no leverage. He traded a full confession of his embezzlement—and his role in Caroline’s death—for solitary confinement in a federal prison.

Vanessa’s body had been pulled from the lake the following morning.

I stood in the kitchen, folding clean napkins. The morning sun streamed through the large windows, warming the granite counters.

“Claire!”

Emily skipped into the kitchen. She wasn’t wearing a stiff party dress or an oversized apron. She wore a pair of worn denim overalls and a bright yellow sweater—her mother’s favorite color.

She looked like a normal eleven-year-old girl.

“Hey, sweetie,” I smiled. “Did you finish your math homework?”

“Dad helped me,” she grinned. “He’s really bad at fractions.”

“Don’t tell him I agree with you,” I laughed.

Luca walked into the kitchen behind her. He wore a simple grey sweater and dark jeans. The dark circles under his eyes had faded. He looked lighter. He looked like a father.

“I heard that,” Luca said, pouring himself a cup of coffee.

“You’re paying me to clean, not to lie about your math skills,” I teased.

It was a bold thing for a maid to say to Luca Moretti, but everything had changed between us since that night. I was no longer just the help. I was the woman who had stood between his daughter and a carving knife.

“Speaking of paying you,” Luca said, setting his mug down. His tone turned serious, but warm. “We need to talk about your mother.”

My smile faltered slightly. “Sir?”

“I bought the apartment building she lives in,” Luca said casually, as if he were talking about buying groceries.

I dropped the napkin I was folding. “You… what?”

“I bought it yesterday,” he continued. “Her rent is covered. Forever. In fact, she’s officially the building manager now, with a full salary. Though her only real duty is to call the maintenance company when something breaks.”

Tears immediately pricked my eyes. “Mr. Moretti, I… I can’t let you do that. That’s too much.”

“You saved my daughter’s life, Claire,” he said, stepping closer. “You gave me back the truth about my wife. You gave Emily her mother’s memory back. Buying a brick building in the South Side is the cheapest debt I’ve ever paid.”

I wiped my eyes, overwhelmed. “Thank you. She… she’s going to be so happy.”

“Good,” Luca said softly. “Now, about your job here.”

My stomach gave a little nervous flip. Was he letting me go now that the danger was over?

“I want to send Emily to private school in the fall,” Luca said, glancing at his daughter, who was happily eating a bowl of cereal at the island. “But until then, she needs a tutor. Someone she trusts. Someone who isn’t afraid to tell me when I’m wrong.”

He looked back at me.

“I want you to stay, Claire. Not as a maid. As Emily’s tutor, and as part of this family’s inner circle. Your salary will be tripled.”

I looked at Emily. She gave me a hopeful, milky smile.

Then I looked at Luca. The way he was looking at me wasn’t just gratitude. There was a quiet, steady respect there. And maybe, just maybe, the very beginning of something else.

“I’d love to stay,” I said softly.

Luca smiled. A real, genuine smile that reached his dark eyes.

“Good,” he said. “Because dinner is in ten minutes, and you’re sitting with us.”

Ten minutes later, I walked into the dining room.

The long mahogany table didn’t have twenty-eight chairs around it anymore. It only had three.

Luca sat at the head. Emily sat to his left.

And the chair to his right—the chair Vanessa used to claim—was pulled out, waiting for me.

Emily patted the wood of the chair excitedly. “Come on, Claire! Chef made lasagna!”

I walked over and sat down.

For the first time in my life, I wasn’t carrying the plates. I was just sharing a meal.

As Luca passed me the bowl of salad, our fingers brushed. A warm jolt of electricity shot up my arm, and I saw his eyes catch mine.

We both looked away quickly, but the feeling lingered in the air, sweet and heavy.

“Oh, I forgot!” Emily suddenly announced, dropping her fork.

She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small, folded piece of paper. She handed it to Luca.

“I found this in the pocket of Mommy’s old coat when I was moving it to my new closet,” Emily said.

Luca took the paper. He unfolded it carefully.

I watched his eyes scan the page. His breath hitched.

“What is it?” I asked gently.

Luca slowly handed the paper across the table to me.

It was a drawing. Done in crayon by an eight-year-old Emily, three years ago.

But it wasn’t just a picture of Emily and her mother.

At the bottom of the page, written in Caroline’s fading, erratic handwriting, was a final message she had managed to scribble before she died.

‘Luca. Protect our little girl. And when the time is right, find someone who loves her as much as I do. Don’t be alone.’

Share