Chapter 12 - The Sunday Dinner Without Empty Chairs
The next afternoon was Sunday.
For the first time in ten months, I didn’t wear a black uniform. I didn’t carry a silver tray.
I wore a simple, elegant emerald-green dress that Luca had quietly ordered to my exact measurements.
The grand dining room looked entirely different in the warm afternoon sunlight. The imposing shadows were gone.
The massive mahogany table, which usually seated thirty, had been cleared.
In the center of the room, set beneath the sparkling chandelier, was a smaller, intimate arrangement.
Three place settings.
I walked into the room, my heels clicking softly against the marble floor.
Luca was already there, pouring sparkling water into crystal glasses. He wore a crisp white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, looking relaxed, powerful, and completely at peace.
He looked up when I walked in.
His breath visibly hitched. He set the water pitcher down, his dark eyes sweeping over me.
“You look breathtaking,” Luca said, his voice a low, rough murmur.
“Thank you,” I smiled, feeling a blush rise to my cheeks.
I looked down at the table.
There was no confusion about the seating arrangements today.
Luca’s chair sat at the head of the table.
To his left was Matteo’s chair.
And to his right, resting perfectly in the sunlight, was my chair.
Matteo came bounding down the grand staircase, his tie slightly crooked as usual. He skidded into the dining room, stopping when he saw me.
“Whoa,” Matteo grinned. “You look like a movie star, Claire.”
“And you look very handsome, Matteo,” I laughed, walking over and fixing his tie, just like I had done in the breakfast room a year ago.
But this time, nobody was hiding. Nobody was afraid.
“Shall we?” Luca asked, pulling out my chair.
I sat down. The gold bracelet from Palermo clinked softly against the mahogany table.
Matteo took his seat across from me. Luca sat at the head, bridging the space between us.
The private chef brought out the food. No extravagant, pretentious catering. Just massive bowls of steaming pasta, fresh bread, and rich, homemade sauce.
As we ate, the room filled with something this house had lacked for five long years.
Laughter.
Matteo talked animatedly about his upcoming science fair project. Luca listened with genuine interest, occasionally teasing his son, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
I sat back for a moment, simply watching them.
I thought about the terrified maid who had dragged a chair across this floor, risking everything to protect a boy who wasn’t hers.
I thought about the cold, grieving mafia boss who had torn a foreclosure deed in half to protect a woman he barely knew.
We had walked through fire to find each other.
Luca caught me watching him.
He reached across the corner of the table. His large, warm hand covered mine, his thumb resting gently against the antique gold bracelet.
He didn’t say anything. The look in his dark eyes said it all.
He was home. We all were.
Matteo reached for another piece of bread, knocking over his water glass in the process. Ice spilled across the pristine white tablecloth.
“Oh man, I’m sorry!” Matteo gasped, grabbing a napkin.
In the past, a spilled glass would have summoned a terrified maid.
Today, Luca just laughed.
He picked up his own napkin, handed it to his son, and helped him wipe up the water.
I smiled, picking up my wine glass, taking a slow sip as the afternoon sun bathed the dining room in gold.
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There were no empty chairs at the table anymore.
And there never would be again.
