THE MAFIA BOSS’S FIANCÉE TOLD ME TO KEEP AN OLD CLEANER’S HOMEMADE LASAGNA AWAY FROM THE DINNER TABLE BECAUSE “SHE’S STAFF, NOT FAMILY”—BUT WHEN VINCENT ROMANO TASTED IT, HE ASKED WHO HAD MADE HER PAY TO ATTEND HIS FATHER’S MEMORIAL. “She can leave it by the sink.” Celeste Marchesi didn’t look at the old woman. She looked at me. In my hands was a dented metal baking tin. Inside lay a lasagna wrapped in foil. A little tomato sauce had leaked onto the towel beneath it. “It’s for Vincent,” the woman said. Celeste adjusted the diamond bracelet on her wrist. “Mr. Romano.” The woman nodded. “Of course.” Her name was Ada Ferri. She was seventy-five. For thirty-two years, she had cleaned the Romano family home. Tonight, she wore her best black dress under an old wool coat. At her collar was a small silver brooch. “I made his father’s favorite,” she said. Celeste glanced toward the dining room. “This is a private memorial dinner.” “I received an invitation.” “An invitation to pay your respects. Not to join the family table.” Ada’s fingers tightened around her purse. My name is Grace Miller. I was twenty-nine and had worked in the house for six months. I had spent all afternoon polishing silver. Now I stood holding food made by a woman who wasn’t being offered a chair. “I can ask Mr. Romano,” I said. Celeste stepped between me and the doorway. “You can follow instructions.” Ada touched my elbow. “Don’t risk your job, sweetheart.” She reached into her purse. “I only need a receipt before I go.” Celeste’s expression changed. “For what?” I asked. Ada looked confused. “The contribution.” Celeste answered quickly. “The memorial fund.” Ada nodded. “Five thousand dollars.” I nearly dropped the tin. Celeste lowered her voice. “Grace. Kitchen.” I carried the lasagna away. But I didn’t leave it by the sink. Twenty minutes later, Vincent Romano sat at the head of the table. A photograph of his father stood beside an arrangement of white flowers. Guests spoke softly over their plates. I placed a small serving of lasagna before him. Celeste saw the sauce. “Grace, we already have a menu.” Vincent picked up his fork. “Then we have one more dish.” He tasted it. His eyes moved toward the kitchen door. “Is Ada here?” “Yes, sir.” “Why hasn’t anyone brought her in?” Celeste folded her napkin. “She didn’t want to interrupt.” Ada was still waiting in the hallway. Vincent went to her himself. “You came.” “I wouldn’t miss it.” He looked at the tin in my hands. “You remembered.” Ada smiled. “Your father always wanted the corner piece.” Vincent laughed once. Then his eyes filled. “He said it was the only part worth fighting over.” He brought her to the table. Celeste moved her handbag onto the empty chair beside her. Vincent picked it up and handed it back. “Ada sits here.” I fetched another place setting. Ada took off her coat. A small envelope slipped from its pocket. Vincent bent to retrieve it. Across the front was written: MEMORIAL CONTRIBUTION — PAID. He looked at Ada. “What is this?” She glanced at Celeste. “My payment.” “For what?” “The dinner.” Vincent stared at her. “You paid to come here?” Celeste leaned forward. “It was a donation.” Ada shook her head. “You said there was a minimum.” Silence spread down the table. Vincent turned to Celeste. “A minimum?” “To support the foundation.” “What foundation?” She opened her mouth. Then closed it. Ada looked from one face to another. “I didn’t mind helping. I just thought I should get a receipt.” Vincent opened the envelope. Inside was a bank deposit slip. He read the account name. MARCHESI PRIVATE EVENTS. Celeste’s company. “This didn’t go to a foundation.” “I paid for the flowers,” she said. Vincent looked at the arrangements. Then at Ada. “Where did you get five thousand dollars?” Ada smoothed her napkin. “I had some savings.” Celeste exhaled. “There. No one forced her.” Ada kept her eyes lowered. “Not quite enough savings.” Vincent waited. “I sold something.” “What?” “The watch your father gave me when I retired.” Vincent’s hand stopped on the envelope. Ada tried to smile. “He always said it was valuable.” At the far end of the table, an elderly man put down his glass. Then a woman opened her evening bag. She withdrew an envelope identical to Ada’s. “I was told there was a minimum, too,” she said. Vincent looked around the table. “Who else paid?” One hand rose. Then another. Celeste pushed back her chair. Vincent turned toward her. “How many invitations did you sell?” / Chapter 12 / 15

Chapter 12 - The Handcuffs Click in Front of High Society

Three weeks later, the formal trial for the Bellini Hospitality conspiracy commenced at the State Supreme Court in Manhattan.

High society had turned out in full force, expecting a dramatic spectacle.

Bianca De Luca sat at the defense table in an orange prison jumpsuit, her wrists shackled to her waist. Her high-priced defense attorneys whispered frantically beside her, but their papers were useless against the mountain of evidence Damian had provided.

Marco sat beside her, looking hollow and broken, having already agreed to a plea deal to testify against his own sister in exchange for a reduced sentence in federal prison.

When the courtroom doors opened, Damian Moretti walked in.

He was dressed in a tailored navy suit, commanding absolute authority.

Beside him walked Elena Vitale, dressed in a beautiful emerald wool coat that Damian had bought for her, and me, wearing an elegant cream silk dress.

The murmurs in the gallery were deafening.

Damian took the witness stand.

For two hours, with calm, surgical precision, he laid out every forged signature, every intercepted phone call, and every dollar stolen from his mother’s memorial fund.

Then, Elena took the stand.

With quiet grace and unbreakable dignity, she recounted how she had fed Damian and his mother when they had no shoes on their feet, and how Bianca had laughed as she tried to throw her bread into the trash.

When the presiding judge, an honorable woman known for her strict adherence to justice, delivered the verdict, she didn't mince words.

“The actions of Bianca and Marco De Luca represent the lowest form of human greed—preying on the elderly, the vulnerable, and the sacred charitable trusts established for our city’s heritage.”

The gavel slammed down.

“Bianca De Luca is sentenced to thirty-eight years at Bedford Hills Correctional Facility with no possibility of parole for the first twenty-five years.”

“Marco De Luca is sentenced to twelve years at Otisville Federal Penitentiary.”

Bianca broke into hysterical sobs as the court bailiffs stepped forward and placed heavy transport chains around her ankles.

As she was led past the gallery toward the holding cells, she caught Damian’s eye.

Damian didn't look at her with anger.

He looked at her with total, absolute indifference.