Chapter 6
The raised glasses were rehearsed.
One guest admitted it.
Peter Voss.
Fifty-eight.
Former club operator whose private access I revoked after he used Bellini security to intimidate a business partner.
He came to me voluntarily.
Fear makes people honest quickly.
“Grant said Serena would confront you.”
“How?”
“He didn’t say.”
“And the toast?”
Peter looked ashamed.
“When she made her point, we were supposed to raise our glasses.”
“Why?”
“To show Adrian he had support.”
There it was.
The moment on the lawn had been staged visually.
Thirty wealthy guests.
Phones up.
Champagne high.
Eleanor Bellini soaked, struck, mocked.
Adrian watching.
If I retaliated wildly, Grant would call me unstable.
If I walked away, weak.
If Adrian defended me, Serena would say he was still his mother’s boy.
Every path served them.
Except I asked a question.
Who thinks she was right?
That forced supporters to identify themselves.
Grant had wanted the crowd anonymous.
I made them choose publicly.
Peter lowered his eyes.
“We didn’t think she’d hit you.”
I stared.
“You laughed after she did.”
Silence.
Good.
That distinction mattered.
Maybe the slap surprised him.
The laughter was still his.
“What were you promised?”
He frowned.
“Nothing.”
I waited.
Then:
“Access.”
Always.
Grant promised old contracts would reopen once Adrian established his household.
Not through Adrian directly.
Through “new family arrangements.”
Guest privileges.
Club access.
Protection.
Business introductions.
Tiny pieces of power that look harmless alone.
Together, a shadow government.
I asked:
“Did Adrian know?”
“No.”
I believed Peter.
“Serena?”
His face changed.
“Yes.”
She attended three dinners without Adrian.
The bride had not merely supported her brother’s plan.
She helped recruit for it.
Then Peter added:
“There was supposed to be an announcement after the engagement toast.”
My attention sharpened.
“What announcement?”
He swallowed.
“That Adrian would host the Bellini Sunday Table from now on.”
I stopped.
The Sunday Table had belonged to me for twelve years.
Not an official office.
Something more intimate.
Every major family dispute came through that dinner eventually.
May you like
Serena had planned to transfer my social center without asking me.
That was the real coup.
