Chapter 3
Gregory finally admitted the idea was his.
Not Bianca’s.
That mattered.
He had spent three years working alongside several Carbone associates.
Reliable.
Ambitious.
Never stupid.
I liked him.
Enough that I allowed him into rooms where nonfamily men normally waited outside.
He mistook access for trajectory.
Then one senior capo made an offhand comment six months earlier:
“You’re practically one of us already.”
Gregory built a future around it.
He began imagining a place beside me.
Then after the engagement, Bianca helped turn imagination into presentation.
A wedding alliance.
A photograph.
A few carefully seated dinners.
Guests repeating that Gregory had become my right hand.
Eventually, the story might feel true enough that challenging it seemed disruptive.
I looked at him.
“Did I ever tell you I wanted you after me?”
“No.”
“Did Sophia?”
“No.”
“Did any Carbone?”
He hesitated.
“Not directly.”
Of course.
People hear what ambition translates for them.
Then Sophia said:
“He told me it would be easier after the baby.”
I turned.
“What would?”
She looked at Gregory.
“My stepping back.”
My chest tightened.
She had been helping oversee several family charities and property operations.
Not Mafia command.
Still influence.
Gregory assumed pregnancy meant retreat.
Then motherhood.
Then absence.
A temporary pause he intended to fill permanently.
May you like
Bianca’s wedding photograph was merely the first public picture of a future they had already designed.
Without asking any of us.
