Eight Years as the Invisible Mafia Princess of the Family Chapter 09
My mom stood there frozen, like those words had frozen her solid. Her lips trembled a long time, but no sound came out. Then she broke down crying. “Vesper, what am I supposed to do? I want to make it up to you, but I don’t even know what you like to eat.”
“Every time I remember what you went through back then, I just want to—” She couldn’t finish. Her hands fisted into her apron, knuckles bone-white.
I looked at her graying hair and felt none of the satisfaction I’d imagined. I used to fantasize about this so many times. I pictured them breaking down with regret, crying, begging me to come home.
Now that it was actually happening, I understood—regret that shows up late doesn’t fix the past. It only reminds me all over again that, back then, they really did toss me aside that easily.
“Mom.” It was the first time I’d called her that in eight years. Her head snapped up. A faint, fragile light flickered in her eyes.
I said quietly, “What’s done is done. I have my own life now. My own career. My own choices.”
That light in her eyes dimmed.
Dad rushed in, words tumbling. “We’re not asking you to forgive us right now. Just—come back for dinner once in a while. Let us know you’re okay. That’s enough.”
Silas’s eyes were red, his voice scraped raw. “God, just—hit me. Scream. Anything. I was terrible to you. Everything I should’ve given you, I handed to her. And then I turned around and made it your fault. Like you were crazy for wanting your own family to love you. I didn’t see it. I didn’t see any of it.”
I looked at them and suddenly remembered my first winter after leaving New Orleans. A lab session ran late, and a blizzard shut down the Manhattan subway.
I walked back to my dorm alone, trudging through the snow. Through the window of a restaurant on the corner, I saw a family of three sitting around a table, eating dinner.
I stood outside and watched a long, long time, until my fingers went numb with cold. That was the moment I understood—I couldn’t spend my whole life standing outside other people’s windows. I had to light my own lamp.
I stood and reached for my coat draped over the back of the chair. My mom scrambled to her feet. “You’re leaving? Will you come back?”
I was quiet for a moment. “When I have time, I’ll visit.”
Her tears fell harder, but she didn’t dare try to stop me. My dad went to his study and came back with a thick envelope. “This is the property and trust shares we set up for you. Don’t get the wrong idea—we’re not trying to buy your forgiveness. They just… they should’ve been yours all along.”
I gave a small smile. “I don’t need them.”
His hand froze in midair.
As I reached the door, Silas’s voice caught me. “Vesper.” I looked back. His eyes were so red, his voice scraped raw. “Can I… can I still call you that?”
I held his gaze a long time. I remembered the boy under the oak tree who swore he’d protect me. But that’s not who stood in front of me later. The man he became accused me of jealousy, treated me like a burden, left me bleeding and alone. But the good parts didn’t cancel out the rest. I couldn’t pretend they did.
“Suit yourself.”
I opened the door and walked down the steps. The black Cadillacs were still waiting at the curb. Elio pulled the door open and handed me a tablet. “The Rossetti family’s partnership proposal—do you want me to reject it now?”
I glanced back at the lit windows of the estate. “No. Process it by standard rules. If it passes, it passes. If it gets cut, it gets cut.”
Elio nodded, something close to a smile in his eyes. “Maksim said you’d decide exactly that.”
I got into the car. Behind me, I could hear my mom’s muffled sobs, my dad’s low sigh, Silas’s broken, hollow choking sound.
The car pulled out of the Garden District. Streetlamps flicked on one after another, and the huge shadows of the oaks slid slow across the window.
I know I’ll probably come back someday. Maybe I’ll get holiday greetings from them. Maybe, years and years from now, I’ll be there when they’re old. When they need someone.
But I’m never trapping myself in that converted laundry room at the end of the back stairs again. I’m not wrecking myself over a scrap of praise, a sliver of favor, or a slice of cake that was never going to be mine anyway.
I used to think vanishing for eight years was my way of punishing them. I get it now. It wasn’t punishment. It was the first time I ever truly saved myself.