Chapter 11
Clara stared at him across the polished mahogany table.
The offer was staggering, a complete reversal of her station in life.
From washing plates in the sink to running the financial heart of the Costello syndicate.
“Why?” Clara asked, her voice cautious. “You don’t owe me anything because of my mother.”
“I’m not paying a debt, Clara,” Damian said, walking slowly around the table until he stood right beside her chair. “I’m recognizing talent and loyalty in a house full of snakes.”
He reached out, his fingers lightly brushing against the small burn scar on her wrist—the one she’d gotten while baking the night before.
“Besides,” Damian added with a faint, rare smile, “nobody else knows how to make this pie.”
Clara felt a sudden warmth bloom in her chest, entirely unrelated to the kitchen heat.
“I accept,” she said firmly.
“Good,” Damian replied. “Because my uncle Salvatore is arriving from Chicago tonight, and he’s notoriously difficult to please.”
Clara’s eyes narrowed playfully. “Is he a dangerous mafia boss too?”
“Worse,” Damian chuckled. “He’s a retired food critic.”
The tension that had hung over the estate for twenty years finally dissolved completely.
Over the next three days, federal authorities dismantled Arthur Kensington’s syndicate piece by piece.
Bank accounts were seized, shell companies were liquidated, and arrest warrants were issued for half a dozen corrupt politicians on Arthur’s payroll.
Victoria Kensington sat in a holding cell in Manhattan, her grand plans reduced to ash.
At the Costello estate, a new era had begun.
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Clara moved into the executive suite on the second floor—the very room her mother had cleaned decades ago.
She wore tailored suits instead of a cotton apron, but every afternoon at four o’clock, she still walked down to the kitchen to check on the oven.
