Chapter 2
I sent the children into the adjoining sitting room with my oldest bodyguard, Marco.
Not because I wanted them away from the truth.
Because they had already been used enough for one night.
Beckett protested.
“I want to stay with you.”
I crouched in front of him.
“I know.”
“Are they in trouble?”
“Yes.”
He looked toward the dining table.
“Because we didn't eat?”
“No.”
I glanced at Damian.
“Because they wanted you not to.”
Beckett nodded slowly.
That answer made sense to him.
It shouldn't have.
Marco took all three children into the next room.
The door stayed open.
I wanted them where I could see them.
Then I faced Marguerite.
“What was I supposed to choose?”
She folded her arms.
“You're being theatrical.”
“Seven people raised their hands.”
“So?”
“So Damian attacked me the moment he realized I was counting.”
Damian wiped blood from the corner of his mouth.
“You were humiliating everyone.”
I almost smiled.
“You starved three children at their own family table.”
“They weren't starving.”
Marguerite's answer came too quickly.
“They missed one course.”
I looked at the kitchen doors.
“Chef.”
The head chef stepped out.
He looked terrified.
Good.
“Were my children's meals prepared?”
“Yes, Boss.”
“Where are they?”
He hesitated.
“Back warmer.”
“Why?”
His eyes moved toward Damian.
That was enough.
Damian noticed.
“You answer him.”
The chef swallowed.
“Mr. Damian ordered us not to serve the children unless instructed.”
“When?”
“This afternoon.”
I looked at Marguerite.
She shook her head.
“Damian handles seating.”
“Food isn't seating.”
Nobody laughed.
I turned back to the chef.
“Was this the first time?”
His silence answered.
My stomach hardened.
“How many?”
“Boss—”
“How many dinners?”
“Four.”
The room changed.
Four.
I had attended two.
The other two I had missed because of meetings outside the city.
I looked toward the sitting room.
Beckett was helping Della cut her meat.
Five years old.
Already taking care of his sisters.
I turned back.
“Four dinners.”
The chef nodded.
“Why didn't anyone tell me?”
His face fell.
“We were told you knew.”
There it was.
Someone had been using my name.
“Who told you?”
“Mr. Damian.”
Damian stood straighter.
“I told them the children were on restricted portions.”
“Why?”
“Discipline.”
That word almost made me cross the room.
Almost.
Instead I asked:
“For what?”
Damian said nothing.
Marguerite did.
“They've been spoiled.”
I looked at her diamond necklace.
Then at the table covered in crystal and silver.
“This family has fifty thousand dollars in flowers in one room.”
Nobody moved.
“You're lecturing a five-year-old about excess while wearing a necklace that requires its own guard.”
Her face tightened.
My uncle Peter interrupted.
“This isn't about food.”
Finally.
I turned toward him.
“What is it about?”
He realized too late that he had said too much.
Marguerite looked at him.
Damian looked down.
I waited.
Silence does strange things to people.
Especially guilty ones.
Peter finally exhaled.
“You were supposed to make an announcement tonight.”
I frowned.
“What announcement?”
His expression changed.
“You really don't know.”
“No.”
Marguerite closed her eyes.
I looked from face to face.
Seven raised hands.
Four dinners.
Restricted meals.
A choice.
Then Peter said:
“Damian told us that tonight you were going to decide whether your children remained at the main Vescari table.”
I stared at him.
“Why would I decide that?”
Nobody answered.
So Peter finished the sentence.
“Because we were told you had to choose between being their father…”
May you like
He paused.
“…and remaining head of this family.”
