Eight Years as the Invisible Mafia Princess of the Family Chapter 08
The Silas who used to frown and call me a problem just stood there now, not even knowing what to do with his hands. Dad strode quickly to the door. When he saw my face clearly, he froze too. “Vesper.”
My mom suddenly grabbed my arm. “You cold? Let me make you something. Spaghetti and meatballs—you used to love that. When you were little. Is that okay?”
I looked down at her hand. Her knuckles were bony sharp, but her palm was trembling the whole time. When I was little, I’d wished a thousand times she’d hold onto me like this. Even just asking if I was cold or hungry would’ve made me so happy.
But those words came too many years too late. Now, all they stirred was a faint, sour ache. I didn’t shake her off. “I’m not cold.”
My mom’s tears finally broke. It was like she’d just confirmed I was real. She covered her mouth and bent over, sobbing. “Vesper, I was so wrong. I was so, so wrong.”
The living room had changed everywhere and nowhere at all. The sofa was new. My high school graduation honors certificate, mailed by the school, hung on the wall.
All around it were photos of me—elementary school ID pictures, a profile shot from a middle school awards ceremony, academic competition photos they’d found and printed from God knows where.
I looked at those photos and felt this hollow, absurd ache. When I lived in this house, I was just a shadow they couldn’t be bothered to notice.
Eight years after I left, I’d become the most visible thing in the entire place. Dad followed my gaze. His eyes went red-rimmed instantly. “All these years, we kept waiting for any word from you. Every year on your birthday, your mother made a cake. Silas never stopped sending you emails. We never knew if you got them.”
My mom tugged me toward the couch, then turned and headed for the kitchen. “I’ll make your spaghetti. Just a minute.” She was walking so fast she nearly tripped on the rug. Dad rushed to steady her.
I stayed in the living room, and my gaze drifted toward the back stairs. The door to that old laundry room was still there. I got up and walked over. The second I pushed the door open, I stopped. The narrow bed. The old desk. Everything was exactly as I’d left it.
My dad stood behind me, voice raw and hoarse. “After you left, your mother wouldn’t let anyone touch this room.” She said at the very least, she had to keep your room. So you’d know you still had a place here.”
I ran my hand across the desktop. There was a faint scratch mark—one I’d carved with a compass back in sophomore year.
The day I came home with a competition award, desperate for someone to look at it. But the whole family was busy cheering Katerina up after she bombed her practice test.
I shoved the certificate in the drawer and spent the whole night gouging that line into the wood. Some marks don’t disappear, no matter how many photos you hang or how many times you say you’re sorry.
The doorbell rang again. Silas glanced sharply toward the window.
The Vitale family car was still parked on the street.
Seconds later, Elio stepped through the entry with a foundation attorney. Silas had seen him at East Coast family summits before, and his expression shifted into something complicated.
But Elio didn’t look at anyone else. He just walked straight to me, respectful and precise. “Doctor Vesper, apologies for interrupting your personal time. The partnership proposal submitted by the Rossetti family requires your signature. The council is waiting on your decision.”
Dad stared at that document, stunned. Eight years ago, he thought I was just heading off to college. He thought the family’s ventures would always need him to plot my path.
Now, whether the Rossetti family could even access the Vitale-controlled East Coast medical network came down to my approval.
I took the file. Didn’t open it. “I’ll handle it.”
“Yes, Doctor,” Elio paused. “Do you need us to stay?” I gave a small shake of my head. He didn’t push. He walked out with the attorney.
The living room went so silent you could hear dust settle. My mom came out of the kitchen carrying a plate of spaghetti and meatballs, her eyes still red. She set it down in front of me, careful and tentative. “Taste it. I remember you loved this most when you were little.”
I picked up the fork and took a bite. The sauce was bland. The meatballs had simmered too long. The truth was, I never really loved spaghetti and meatballs as a kid. On some birthday long ago, I saw an extra meatball on Katerina’s plate and said I loved it too. After that, they locked it into their heads as my favorite.
I set the fork down. My mom tensed instantly. “It’s not good? I’ll remake it.”
“No need.” I looked at her. “I didn’t like this when I was little.”