Chapter 12 - The True Mistress of the Hearth
Sunday afternoon arrived with a crisp, clear autumn sky that painted the Chicago skyline in shades of cobalt and amber.
The forty-foot mahogany table in the grand dining hall was set once again.
There were no lavender foams.
There were no tiny squab breasts resting on beds of edible flowers.
Down the center of the table ran long wooden boards piled high with warm, crusty Italian loaves, bowls of marinated olives, and wheels of aged Parmesan.
At the center of the table sat the dented aluminum stockpot, resting on a heavy cork trivet, steam rising toward the crystal chandelier.
Seated around the table were thirty people.
Not politicians looking for campaign donations.
Not corrupt dock inspectors looking for bribes.
Sitting at the table were the people who kept the Moretti empire alive with their sweat and blood.
Vito the gardener sat beside Mrs. Gable from the laundry.
The young dishwasher who had braved the dining room to stop the garbage truck was sitting between two senior capos, his plate piled high with three massive meatballs.
At the foot of the table sat Uncle Paul Bennett.
Beside him, tucked neatly beneath the mahogany edge, was the little blue wooden chair, its carved initials glowing under the warm chandelier light.
Paul was laughing, sharing a story about Elena planting tomato vines in the middle of a November frost, while the old soldiers listened with reverent smiles.
At the head of the table sat Luca Moretti.
He looked relaxed, his collar unbuttoned, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows as he poured red wine into the glasses of his men.
To his right sat Maria Caruso, wearing her mother’s gold olive-leaf earrings, ladling rich red sauce onto the plates with an air of absolute authority.
And to his left, sitting in the high-backed velvet armchair that had once been reserved for Vanessa Bellini, was me.
I had tried to sit near the foot of the table with the staff.
Luca had personally pulled out the chair beside his own and taken my arm.
“The woman who manages this house sits beside the man who defends it,” he had said simply.
Nobody at the table argued.
In fact, when I sat down, Don Carmine Lucchese had raised his glass of Barolo in a silent, respectful toast.
Luca picked up his fork, took a large piece of bread, and dragged it through the dark, fragrant gravy on his plate.
He looked around the crowded, noisy room.
Laughter echoed off the leaded glass windows.
Glasses clinked in cheerful toasts.
The smell of garlic, basil, and braised pork filled every breath.
The cold, sterile ghost of Vanessa’s ambition had been completely erased from the walls.
Luca took a bite of the bread, closed his eyes, and swallowed.
“Maria,” Luca said, leaning toward the old cook.
Maria paused with her ladle suspended in the air, narrowing her eyes playfully.
“What is it now, Luciano? Still not enough salt?”
Luca looked at the dented red pot that had survived thirty years of war, sickness, and betrayal.
Then he looked at Maria, at Uncle Paul, at the loyal men and women breaking bread together under his roof.
“It is perfect,” Luca said, his voice thick with emotion.
“It tastes exactly like home.”
Maria smiled, a warm, radiant expression that lit up her entire wrinkled face, and ladled another meatball onto his plate.
“Then shut up and eat, Luciano,” she said softly.
The entire dining hall erupted into rich, booming laughter that shook the crystals of the chandelier.
Outside the tall arched windows, the cold autumn wind whipped through the trees of Chicago, carrying the scent of winter across the lake.
Street wars would come again.
Rival syndicates would test the borders of the North Side.
Federal indictments would loom like dark storm clouds on the horizon.
But inside the walls of the Moretti mansion, the hearth was burning bright and hot.
May you like
The red sauce was simmering on the stove.
And the family was finally whole again.
