Chapter 9 - A Normal Evening in the Mansion
The heavy oak dining table, which had felt like a courtroom of cold judgment just two nights prior during the disastrous engagement dinner, now hummed with a warmth and chaos it hadn't seen since Frank Moretti passed away ten months ago.
The crystal chandeliers were dimmed to a soft, golden glow. In the center of the table sat a massive, steaming casserole dish of homemade lasagna, its bubbling cheese and rich garlic aroma filling the entire dining room.
Samuel sat at his usual place to the left of the head of the table, eagerly shoveling a massive forkful of pasta into his mouth while recounting a dramatic play-by-play of his baseball practice that afternoon.
"...and then Jackson tried to steal second, but I threw a bullet right into the glove, and the umpire called him out!" Samuel beamed, his dark eyes shining with excitement. "Coach said I'm definitely starting at shortstop next Tuesday!"
Luca sat at the head of the table, listening with a patient, amused smile that I had rarely seen on his face during my two years working in the mansion. He wore a simple black t-shirt with his sleeves pushed up, looking less like a ruthless Chicago syndicate boss and more like an ordinary older brother sharing dinner with his kid brother.
"Sounds like you've still got your arm, buddy," Luca chuckled, passing the bowl of garlic bread across the table. "Just make sure your math grades are as sharp as your throw, or shortstop is going to turn into library detention."
Samuel groaned playfully, rolling his eyes. "Aw, Luca, come on! I aced my history quiz today!"
"History is easy," Luca smirked. "Algebra is where empires fall."
I stood near the service entrance, watching the exchange with a quiet, contented smile as I poured fresh iced tea into their glasses. For months, this house had felt like a mausoleum—quiet, sterile, and haunted by the heavy ghost of a dying man's unspoken regrets. Now, the laughter bouncing off the vaulted ceilings felt like sunlight breaking through heavy storm clouds.
Samuel suddenly paused, looking up from his plate as his eyes drifted toward the grand fireplace across the room. Draped neatly over the back of an empty armchair was the old, frayed brown wool coat—the one with the crooked black stitches and the faint smell of cedar and peppermint candies.
The table went quiet for a fraction of a second. The joyful bounce in the room softened into something more tender.
Samuel looked down at his hands for a moment, then looked across at Luca. "Do you... do you think Dad would be proud of us today?"
Luca stopped smiling. He set his fork down slowly, leaning back in his chair as his dark amber eyes locked onto his little brother. The playful, casual air vanished, replaced by an absolute, unshakable conviction.
"Sammy," Luca’s voice was deep, steady, and filled with a fierce, protective love. "Dad wouldn't just be proud. He’d be furious at me for letting anyone make you feel like you didn't belong here for even one second. But he’d look at you right now—standing tall, playing baseball, smiling again—and he’d know that we made it through."
Samuel’s lower lip trembled slightly, but a bright, watery smile broke across his face. He nodded, blinking rapidly to keep the tears from spilling over.
"Yeah," the boy whispered. "Me too."
Luca reached across the corner of the table, placing his large, warm hand over Samuel’s smaller one, giving it a reassuring squeeze.
May you like
As I watched them from across the room, feeling the quiet warmth of the family dinner wrap around me like a physical embrace, I realized something profound. I had started working in this mansion two years ago just to earn a paycheck and help pay for my mother's medications. But somewhere along the way, through the grief, the hidden lies, the midnight conspiracies, and the stormy nights, this broken house had become my home too.
And looking at Luca looking back at me from across the table with a soft, lingering gaze, I knew that the story of the Moretti family was only just beginning its happiest chapter.
