Chapter 12 - A SEAT AT THE HEAD
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One month after the downfall of the Bellinis, the annual Moretti Thanksgiving Gala arrived.
It was the premier social event of the Chicago high-society calendar, held in the grand ballroom of the Moretti estate.
Over two hundred guests filled the room: federal judges, prominent philanthropists, business moguls, and syndicate leaders.
The grand crystal chandeliers blazed with light, illuminating tables draped in ivory silk and adorned with autumn centerpieces.
In the past, I would have been carrying heavy silver trays through the swinging kitchen doors, avoiding the arrogant stares of the wealthy.
Tonight was entirely different.
I stood in the master suite on the second floor, looking at my reflection in the full-length gilded mirror.
I wore an off-the-shoulder emerald velvet gown that hugged my curves and flowed gracefully to the polished floor.
My dark hair was swept up into an elegant chignon, secured with delicate pearl pins that Luca had given me.
My hands had completely healed, leaving only tiny, faint white scars on my knuckles—a reminder of the battle that had brought me here.
A soft tap sounded at the door, and Lily skipped into the room, looking like a little princess in a gold satin dress.
Her brown hair had grown slightly, falling into a soft, bouncy wave around her glowing face.
“Miss Emma!” Lily gasped, her hazel eyes wide with pure admiration.
“You look like a queen!”
I laughed, kneeling down to straighten the gold ribbon on her sash.
“And you look like the prettiest princess in Chicago, sweetheart,” I said, kissing her cheek.
“Are you ready to go downstairs?”
Lily grinned, taking my hand.
“Daddy is waiting for us at the top of the stairs.”
We walked out into the grand gallery together.
Luca was standing at the landing, dressed in a custom black tuxedo that accentuated his broad shoulders and commanding presence.
When he turned and saw me walking toward him, his breath caught visibly in his throat.
His dark eyes darkened with an intensity that made my knees feel delightfully weak.
“You are breathtaking, Emma,” Luca murmured, taking my hand and pressing a tender kiss to the back of my fingers.
“You don't look too bad yourself, Mr. Moretti,” I teased gently.
Luca smiled, offering his left arm to me and taking Lily’s hand with his right.
Together, the three of us descended the grand marble staircase into the crowded ballroom.
The string quartet ceased playing for a fraction of a second as every conversation in the vast room came to an abrupt halt.
Two hundred pairs of eyes locked onto the former housemaid walking beside the most feared man in Chicago.
Whispers of shock and curiosity rippled through the older socialites seated near the front.
Luca did not pay them the slightest bit of attention.
He walked with proud, unyielding confidence, guiding Lily and me straight toward the head table in the center of the room.
Sitting at the head table were Caroline and my mother, Clara, laughing together over glasses of vintage champagne.
My mother wore a beautiful navy lace gown, her cheeks flushed with health and happiness.
When we reached the center table, Luca did not seat me at the side, where mistresses and junior companions were traditionally placed.
Instead, Luca pulled out the heavy carved mahogany armchair directly to his right—the seat of absolute authority.
The seat that had once belonged to the matriarchs of the Moretti bloodline.
He waited until I sat down, gently smoothing my velvet dress, before taking his own seat at the head of the table.
The message to the entire city of Chicago was unmistakably clear:
May you like
Emma Sullivan was not a passing fancy.
She was the undisputed lady of the Moretti empire.
