Chapter 13 - THE FAMILY TABLE
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Two months had passed since the morning by the stone fountain.
Winter had arrived in Chicago with a fierce, beautiful vengeance, coating the city in a thick blanket of pristine white snow.
The Moretti mansion was glowing with holiday lights, golden garlands winding around the grand curved staircase, and three massive spruce trees filling the great hall with the fresh scent of cedar and pine.
Tonight was Christmas Eve.
The grand dining room, where seventy days earlier Vanessa Bellini had tried to humiliate Teresa Moretti, was transformed.
There was no heavy silver serving platter on a cold rolling cart.
There were no snooty society guests sipping champagne while looking down their noses at the woman whose house they occupied.
Instead, the long mahogany table was covered in red velvet runners, hand-painted ceramic bowls filled with steaming dishes of homemade pasta, and plates piled high with warm, crusty bread fresh from the newly opened 18th Street Bakery.
Teresa Moretti stood at the head of the kitchen counter, wearing a festive dark-green apron with flour dusted across her nose and cheeks.
She was laughing loudly, slapping Michael’s hand away with a wooden spoon as he tried to steal a hot meatball from the simmering copper pot.
"Out of my kitchen, Michael!" Teresa scolded playfully.
"Go pour the wine before I make you wash the dishes by hand!"
"Mama, I'm a feared underboss in the Chicago syndicate," Michael protested with a grin, rubbing his knuckles where the spoon had struck him.
"People tremble when I walk into a restaurant."
"I don't care if you're the Pope, Michael Moretti," Teresa replied with mock severity.
"In this kitchen, you are the boy who used to hide his peas under the radiator."
Michael threw his hands up in defeat, retreating into the dining room where Marco and two other trusted family captains were setting the heavy silver flatware.
I stood beside Teresa, laughing as I rolled out the delicate dough for the ricotta cannoli shells.
I wasn't wearing a maid’s uniform.
I wore a tailored cream-colored knit dress that Teresa had personally bought for me, my hair pinned up in a soft, elegant twist.
"Hannah, taste this sauce," Teresa instructed, holding up a wooden spoon filled with rich, bubbling marinara.
I leaned in, blowing gently on the steam before taking a sip.
The flavor was incredible—rich with garlic, fresh basil, and sweet San Marzano tomatoes.
"It's perfect, Teresa. Absolutely perfect."
"Just like your father’s appetite," a deep, warm voice spoke from the kitchen doorway.
I turned to see my father, Thomas Sullivan, walking slowly into the kitchen.
He was using a polished wooden cane, but his steps were firm, his back straight, and the gray, hollow look of chronic illness had vanished from his face.
Dressed in a handsome tweed jacket that Luca had sent to his apartment, he looked ten years younger.
"Thomas!" Teresa beamed, wiping her hands on a towel and walking over to link her arm through his.
"Are you hungry? Because these boys eat like wolves, and if we don't sit down soon, there won't be a crumb left."
"Mrs. Moretti, the smell of your cooking could wake the dead," my father said with a broad, genuine smile.
He looked across the room at me, his blue eyes glistening with pride and emotional peace.
He had spent thirty years breaking his body in a foundry to keep our family afloat; seeing him stand here, healthy and respected, was the greatest gift I had ever received.
"Dinner is served!" Teresa announced, leading my father out into the dining room.
Luca walked in from the private study, buttoning his charcoal suit jacket.
As our eyes met across the kitchen island, a slow, breathtaking smile spread across his handsome face.
He walked over to where I was finishing the cannoli shells, leaning his hands against the marble counter, trapping me playfully against the prep station.
"You have flour on your forehead, Hannah," he murmured, his voice low and intimate.
"Do I?" I asked, reaching up with my hand.
"Allow me," he said softly.
His warm, calloused thumb gently brushed across my brow, lingering against my temple for a heartbeat longer than necessary.
The touch sent a delicious shiver dancing down my spine.
"You look beautiful tonight," he whispered, his gray-green eyes darkening with unspoken affection.
"Thank you, Don Moretti," I teased softly, tilting my head up to meet his gaze.
"Don't call me that," he murmured, leaning closer until his lips were inches from mine.
"To you, I will always just be Luca."
"Dinner is getting cold, you two!" Michael shouted from the dining room, followed by the sound of corks popping and my father’s hearty laughter.
Luca sighed with a faint, amused grin, stepping back and offering me his arm.
"Shall we join the family, Hannah?"
"We shall," I smiled, slipping my hand into the crook of his arm.
We walked into the grand dining room together.
Teresa sat at the head of the table, smiling proudly as she looked down the long mahogany spread.
My father sat to her right, Michael to her left, with Marco and the household staff sitting comfortably among the family captains.
There was no staff table near the kitchen.
There were no assigned seats meant to divide the powerful from the humble.
Every single person who had stood loyal when the house was under siege had a place of honor.
Luca pulled out the chair directly beside his mother, but he didn't sit in it.
He looked at me, gesturing to the seat.
"Your place, Hannah."
I looked at him in surprise, my heart swelling with emotion as I took my seat beside Teresa.
Luca sat beside me, pouring dark red wine into every glass at the table.
When the glasses were full, Luca stood up and raised his goblet into the golden light of the chandeliers.
The table fell quiet, everyone looking up at the man who commanded the city.
"Two months ago, this room was filled with thirty strangers," Luca began, his voice ringing clear and steady.
"People who judged a person’s worth by the brand of their shoes, the cut of their diamonds, and the title of their family."
"They thought that power was something you bought with alliances and maintained through cruelty."
He looked down at his mother, his eyes filling with deep, abiding love.
"My mother taught me that true power is found in the hands that work to feed others."
"It's found in the courage to stand up for the vulnerable when everyone else looks away."
Luca turned his gaze directly onto me, raising his glass higher.
"To family," Luca toasted, his voice rich with emotion.
"The family we are born with, and the family we choose through loyalty and love."
"To family!" the table echoed in unison, glasses clinking together in a chorus of crystal and laughter.
As the laughter resumed and Teresa began serving heaping portions of pasta onto my father’s plate, Luca’s hand found mine beneath the table.
His strong, warm fingers interlaced with mine, holding on tight.
May you like
I looked at him and smiled, knowing that the long, terrifying nightmare of the past was truly over.
The apron had been laid down forever, and in its place, a new life had begun.
