Chapter 9 - A Seat at the Table
Six months later.
The summer sun streamed through the grand stained-glass windows of the Lake Michigan Country Club—the most exclusive gathering spot for Chicago’s political and financial elite.
A charity gala was in full swing, filled with senators, corporate CEOs, and old-money families sipping champagne while a string quartet played softly in the background.
I stood by the grand staircase, wearing an elegant floor-length emerald green gown that hugged my curves and highlighted the color of my eyes. My hair was styled in soft vintage waves, and a delicate diamond necklace—a gift from Matteo—glimmered at my throat.
I didn't use a cane.
I walked with a proud, graceful stride, my left leg moving smoothly without pain.
Beside me stood Matteo, looking impossibly handsome in a tailored dark tuxedo. He held my hand publicly, his fingers intertwined with mine, showing the entire city that I was not a secret, not a mistress, and certainly not a victim.
“Look who just walked in,” Matteo whispered in my ear, his breath warm against my neck.
I looked toward the entrance.
Pete Delaney and Ava walked into the ballroom, looking completely overwhelmed by the luxury around them. Pete wore a neat, brand-new suit, and Ava wore a sweet pastel dress, her face radiant with happiness.
After the traitor was exposed, Matteo had helped Pete transform Maggie’s Diner into a thriving chain of three family-style restaurants across the South Side, managed entirely by Pete and Ava.
“Clara!” Ava gasped as she saw me, rushing over to give me a tight, fierce hug. “Oh my god, you look like a movie star!”
“You look beautiful, Ava,” I said warmly, hugging her back. “How is your brother?”
“His asthma is completely under control thanks to the specialist Mr. Moretti found us,” Ava said, looking at Matteo with deep, everlasting gratitude. “We can never thank you enough.”
“You don't need to thank me,” Matteo said with a warm smile. “Thank Clara. She’s the one who stood up to my gun for you.”
As Pete and Ava moved toward the buffet, Marco Rossi walked up to us, holding a silver tray with two glasses of fine vintage champagne. He bowed his head respectfully to me.
“Miss Clara,” Marco said warmly. “The quarterly financial reports for the riverfront development were approved by the board ten minutes ago. Your projections saved us four million dollars in municipal taxes.”
“That’s because I actually read the zoning laws, Marco,” I said with a sly smile, taking a glass of champagne.
“She’s scary, boss,” Marco chuckled, looking at Matteo. “Worse than Julian ever was.”
“She’s brilliant,” Matteo corrected proudly, pulling me closer against his side.
Suddenly, a group of three older, stern-looking men in dark suits approached our table. They were the senior members of the Family Commission—the old mob bosses who had once whispered that Matteo was weak for showing mercy at Maggie’s Diner.
The eldest boss, Don Carmine, looked at me with cold, evaluating eyes before turning to Matteo.
“Matteo,” Carmine said in a raspy, old voice. “We heard your new CFO reorganized your entire legitimate portfolio in six months. The Commission wants to know if she can do the same for our transport accounts in Detroit.”
Matteo looked down at me, a proud, protective smile touching his lips.
“You’ll have to ask her yourself, Don Carmine,” Matteo said calmly. “Clara isn't my subordinate. She’s my partner.”
Don Carmine looked at me, surprised by Matteo’s words. He bowed his head slightly in respect—a gesture never before granted to a woman outside the family bloodline.
“Miss Clara,” Carmine said politely. “Name your price.”
I took a sip of my champagne, looking around the brilliant ballroom filled with the most powerful people in Chicago. Five months ago, I was begging at this man's shoes on a greasy diner floor. Today, I commanded their respect.
May you like
“My rate is two hundred dollars an hour,” I said calmly, holding Don Carmine’s gaze. “And I work strictly on the legal books.”
Carmine let out a raspy laugh. “Agreed.”
