Chapter 2
At the center of the brilliant, naturally lit room sat the main family table, adorned with towering floral arrangements and flawless silver table settings. Three-year-old Emma Moretti sat perched on a heavy dining chair, her legs dangling far above the floor. As Vincent’s adopted granddaughter, she was dressed like a little princess in an elegant child’s dress and pristine white flats. Her fair, rosy cheeks were flushed with the excitement of the large party, and she swung her feet happily beside her older brother.
Sixteen-year-old David Moretti sat rigidly next to her. Wearing a sharp formal suit, a crisp dress shirt, and polished dress shoes, David carried the weight of the family name with serious intent. He kept a watchful, protective eye on his little sister, leaning over occasionally to whisper in her ear.
"Eat your vegetables, Emma," David said softly, a small smile breaking through his serious demeanor. "Mom is going to check your plate before you get any dessert. You know the rules."
"I don't like the green ones, Davey," Emma whispered back, her high-pitched American accent ringing with innocent defiance. "They taste like grass."
"Just hide them under the potatoes," David chuckled, reaching over to help her maneuver her fork.
From directly across the table, Margaret Moretti watched the exchange with unadulterated disgust. At sixty-eight years old, Vincent’s older sister was a relic of a crueler, older regime. She wore a dark, severe formal outfit dripping with heavy pearl jewelry, thick rings on her wrinkled fingers, and sharp heels. Her fair skin was powdered pale, and her eyes burned with toxic resentment toward the child she viewed as an illegitimate stain on the Moretti bloodline.
"Stop indulging her, David," Margaret snapped, her voice cutting through the ambient noise like a serrated blade. "She needs to learn how to conduct herself. This table is for blood relatives, not strays."
"Aunt Margaret, please," David replied, his jaw tightening defensively. "She's just a little girl."
"She is an embarrassment," Margaret hissed, her anger boiling over. She stood up abruptly from her chair, her pearls clacking loudly against her chest.
Without a shred of warning, Margaret leaned aggressively across the table. Her ringed hand shot out and violently snatched Emma’s dinner plate right out from under the child's nose. Silverware clattered loudly, spilling food across the pristine white linen.
"Hey!" David yelled, half-standing from his seat.
But Margaret wasn't finished. She marched around the edge of the table, her heels clicking sharply against the floor. Before anyone could intervene, she raised her foot and violently kicked the heavy wooden chair right from beneath the little girl.
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Emma let out a sharp, breathless gasp as the chair gave way. She crashed heavily onto the hard ballroom floor, her tiny flats skidding across the polished marble. A collective, horrified gasp erupted from the nearby guests.
"Adopted children," Margaret stated coldly, looking down at the weeping toddler with absolute disdain, "eat in the kitchen."
