Chapter 1
Vincent ended the banquet before dessert.
Nobody argued.
The Moretti family had spent decades learning which version of Vincent was safest to challenge.
The shouting version could be reasoned with.
The silent version could not.
Margaret remained near the kitchen doors with two bodyguards between her and the children.
Emma clung to Laura.
David had not moved from his chair.
Vincent looked first at his granddaughter.
“Does anything hurt?”
Emma touched one elbow.
Laura examined it.
“She needs to be checked.”
Vincent immediately ordered the family physician called.
Margaret scoffed.
“She fell two feet.”
Vincent turned.
“She fell because you kicked the chair out from under a three-year-old.”
“You’re turning discipline into abuse.”
“You don’t discipline Laura’s child.”
“She is not—”
Vincent raised one hand.
Margaret stopped.
“Finish that sentence,” he said quietly.
For once, she didn’t.
Vincent ordered Margaret escorted to a private sitting room until her driver arrived.
She immediately demanded that David come with her.
That surprised everyone.
Especially David.
“No,” Laura said.
Margaret looked directly at the sixteen-year-old.
“David knows what this family means.”
David went pale.
Vincent noticed.
“So do I,” he said. “Leave him.”
Margaret’s face hardened.
She left without another word.
Only then did Vincent crouch beside Emma.
The little girl looked at the table.
“My dinner’s gone.”
Vincent glanced toward the plate Margaret had taken away.
“We’ll get you another one.”
Emma whispered, “Can I eat here?”
Vincent’s chest tightened.
“You can eat anywhere your mother says you can.”
“With David?”
David finally looked up.
“Yeah.”
His voice cracked.
“With me.”
The doctor arrived twenty minutes later.
Emma had a bruised hip and elbow but no serious injury.
Vincent should have felt relieved.
Instead, his attention kept returning to David.
The teenager was unusually quiet.
After Emma went upstairs with Laura, Vincent asked him to stay.
“What did Margaret mean?”
David stared at the floor.
“About what?”
“When she said you know what this family means.”
“I don’t know.”
Vincent waited.
David rubbed his hands together.
It was a nervous habit Vincent had seen since the boy was eight.
“David.”
The teenager looked toward the ballroom doors.
“Aunt Margaret has been talking to me.”
“About Emma?”
David swallowed.
“Sometimes.”
“How long?”
A pause.
“Since last winter.”
That was eight months.
Vincent sat down.
“What has she been saying?”
David looked at his grandfather.
May you like
Then he said something Vincent had not expected.
“That I’m getting old enough to decide which side of the family I belong to.”
