Chapter 2 - The Price of a Seat at the Table
“Frank, put that money back in your pocket.”
Vanessa Bellini stood beside the long banquet table in a fitted red silk gown, staring at four wrinkled twenty-dollar bills resting beside an untouched plate.
Forty guests watched beneath the crystal chandeliers.
Seventy-six-year-old Frank Moretti sat with his hands folded in his lap. He wore a brown Sunday jacket with a carefully mended elbow. His silver hair was neatly combed. And tucked into his breast pocket was a little pink envelope with a crooked heart drawn on it.
“I'm sorry, Vanessa,” he said quietly. “I thought eighty dollars was enough.”
Vanessa laughed. “Enough for what?”
Frank looked toward the empty chair beside him. “For dinner. And maybe a little time with Rosie afterward.”
Several guests exchanged uncomfortable glances.
Vanessa leaned closer. “Frank, this is an engagement celebration. Not a charity supper.”
The old man's cheeks turned red. “I understand.”
“Then stop waving your money around. You're embarrassing yourself.”
I stepped forward with my silver serving tray. “Mrs. Bellini,” I whispered, “Mr. Moretti wasn't showing off. He was just trying to give you the money privately.”
Vanessa turned toward me. “Claire, I don't remember asking for your opinion.”
“No, ma'am.”
“Then do your job.”
Frank slowly reached for the bills. His fingers were stiff with arthritis. One slipped onto the floor. He leaned forward to retrieve it. But I caught it first.
“Here you go, Mr. Moretti.”
He looked up at me. “Thank you, sweetheart.” Then he whispered something that made my chest tighten. “Would you ask Vanessa if I can stay until Rosie finishes dessert?”
I stared at him. “Of course you can stay, sir.”
He shook his head slightly. “Best to ask. I don't want to cause trouble.”
My name is Claire Dawson. I'm twenty-seven years old, and I've worked at Dominic Moretti's Chicago mansion for fourteen months.
Dominic was thirty-nine. A powerful Mafia boss with dark hair, tattooed hands, and the kind of reputation that made strangers nervous before he even spoke. But I'd seen him kiss his father's forehead every Christmas. I'd seen him laugh at Frank's terrible jokes. And I'd heard him tell his eight-year-old daughter, Rosie, that her grandfather was the finest man he'd ever known.
Frank Moretti hadn't always been an old man in a patched brown jacket. He'd once owned a little auto-repair shop on the South Side. He worked six days a week. Sometimes seven. When Dominic's mother died, Frank was left raising two boys alone. Dominic was eleven. His younger brother, Anthony, was seven.
Frank learned to cook. Packed their school lunches. Attended every baseball game he could. And kept the repair shop open until midnight because the mortgage didn't care that his children missed their mother. Dominic once told me his father went three winters without buying a new coat so the boys could have decent shoes.
He never forgot it.
Years later, when Dominic became wealthy, he offered to buy Frank a mansion of his own. Frank refused.
“What's wrong with my little house?” he'd asked.
“Nothing, Dad.”
“Then quit trying to buy me another one.”
Frank still lived in the same two-bedroom house where he'd raised his sons. He drove an old Buick. Bought groceries with coupons. And wore his brown Sunday jacket to every family celebration.
Rosie adored him. Every Sunday afternoon, she waited by the front window for his car. He always brought something small. A coloring book. A packet of stickers. Sometimes just a bag of apples from the market. And every Sunday, he stayed for dinner.
Until four months ago.
That was when Vanessa began making changes. She'd moved into the mansion after Dominic proposed. She was beautiful, sophisticated, and always dressed as though a photographer might appear at any moment.
In front of Dominic, she called Frank “Dad.” She hugged him. Asked about his health. But when Dominic wasn't home, she treated him differently. She complained about his old jacket. His inexpensive cologne. The way he sometimes tucked a napkin into his collar.
“It's humiliating,” she'd told me once. “Dominic has senators and business leaders at this table. His father looks like he wandered in from a bus station.”
I hated hearing her speak that way. But Frank never complained. He simply smiled. And tried to be less noticeable.
Then he stopped coming on Sundays.
When Rosie asked why, Vanessa said Grandpa had become too busy. When Dominic asked, she told him Frank preferred staying home.
Neither was true. I discovered that three weeks ago.
I'd been carrying groceries into the kitchen when Frank appeared at the service entrance. He held out a small paper bag.
“Would you mind giving these to Rosie?” Inside were two homemade oatmeal cookies. A little packet of crayons. And a pink envelope. “She turns eight next month. I know it's early, but I wanted her to have the card.”
Then he reached into his pocket. He removed three twenty-dollar bills.
“Can you give these to Vanessa?”
I frowned. “What's that for?”
He looked down. “Last Sunday's balance. The family dinner contribution.”
My stomach tightened. “What balance?”
“Vanessa explained that the caterers charge by the person now. I don't mind paying. Dominic shouldn't have to cover everything. But Vanessa said if I couldn't afford the contribution, it might be better if I stopped coming.”
For a moment, I couldn't speak. “Mr. Moretti, you don't have to pay for dinner here.”
He gave a little laugh. “That's kind of you, honey. Would you tell Rosie I love her? And tell her I didn't forget Sunday. I've never forgotten a Sunday with that little girl.”
After he left, Vanessa appeared and took the money from my hand.
“Claire, Mr. Moretti is getting older. He needs to learn that people can't constantly rearrange their lives around him.” She stepped closer. “And if you say another word to Dominic about Frank's visits, you won't have a job here tomorrow.”
I needed this job to pay my mother's rent and my brother's college tuition. So I said nothing.
But tonight, watching Vanessa humiliate him in front of forty guests, I couldn't stay quiet anymore.
“Vanessa,” Frank's voice pulled me back. “Could I just give Rosie her birthday card before I leave?”
Vanessa looked at the pink envelope. “Frank, her birthday isn't until next week. Give it to her next week.”
“I'm not sure I'll be able to come.”
“Then mail it. She's eight. She doesn't need another homemade card.”
Frank lowered his eyes. He looked toward Rosie, sitting beside her father in a pale yellow dress. Frank lifted one hand. She waved excitedly.
Vanessa stepped between them. “Enough. Claire, return these to him. Tell him we don't need his pocket change.”
Frank's face crumpled. “I wasn't trying to insult anyone.”
Vanessa laughed. “Then perhaps you should stop acting like a man who's paying for admission.”
Frank slowly stood. His knee trembled. “I'm sorry,” he whispered.
I moved beside him. “Mr. Moretti, please sit down. You haven't eaten.”
“I'm not very hungry anymore.” He held the pink envelope toward me. “Would you give this to Rosie? Tell her Grandpa's proud of her. And tell her I'll try to come next Sunday.”
Vanessa rolled her eyes. “Frank, nobody is asking you to make promises.”
I looked at her. “Mrs. Bellini, that's enough. He hasn't done anything wrong.”
Vanessa stepped closer. “Excuse me? You're fired.”
My stomach dropped. But before I could answer, a small voice came from the other end of the table.
“Grandpa?” Rosie stood beside her chair. “Are you leaving? But you promised we'd have cake. Did I do something wrong? Vanessa said you didn't want to come to my house anymore. She said you were tired of playing with me.”
Frank's face broke. He dropped to one knee despite the pain. “No, baby.”
Rosie hurried toward him, throwing herself against his chest. “I've missed you, Grandpa.”
Frank began crying. “I've missed you too, sweetheart.”
“Then why didn't you come?”
“I tried, pumpkin. I really did.”
That's when a glass touched the table.
“Dad?” Dominic Moretti was standing. His eyes were fixed on his father. “Why are you crying?”
Frank quickly wiped his cheeks. “Nothing, son.”
Dominic walked around the table. Then noticed the money on my tray. He looked at me. “Claire? What's that?”
Vanessa stepped forward. “Darling, your father has been making a fuss over the dinner arrangements.”
Dominic looked toward Frank. “Dad?”
Frank lowered his eyes. “I'm sorry, Dominic. I didn't realize tonight cost more.”
The room went silent.
Dominic stared. “What?”
“I can bring the rest next week.”
Dominic turned toward me. “Claire, why does my dad think he has to pay for dinner?”
Vanessa's voice sharpened. “Claire, don't.”
I took a breath. “Sir, Mrs. Bellini has been collecting a dinner contribution from your father. Eighty dollars each Sunday. For several months, sir.”
Dominic slowly turned toward Frank. “Dad?”
“I thought it was the new arrangement, son. The one Vanessa said you wanted. That you were hosting important people now, and that I ought to contribute if I wanted a place at the table.”
Dominic stared at the patched elbow of his father's brown jacket. “Dad, you helped build this family. You paid for my school shoes when you couldn't afford new ones for yourself. You worked sixteen-hour days so Anthony and I wouldn't go hungry. And now you think I want eighty dollars to feed you?”
Frank began crying. “I just didn't want to be a burden.”
Dominic pulled his father into his arms. “Dad, you could eat at my table every night for the rest of your life, and I still wouldn't have paid back what you did for me.”
Rosie climbed onto the chair beside them, wrapping her arms around both men. “Grandpa can sit by me, Daddy.”
“Every time he wants, sweetheart.”
Dominic stood and turned toward Vanessa. His expression was no longer soft. “Why have you been charging my father to visit his own family?”
Vanessa gave a nervous laugh. “Dominic, it was a misunderstanding. I only suggested that everyone contribute.”
Dominic looked down the long banquet table. “Which other guests have you been charging?”
Vanessa whispered: “None.”
“So just my father.”
“Dominic, you don't understand how embarrassing he can be. He doesn't know how to behave around your business associates.”
Dominic's voice hardened. “That man taught me how to behave. He taught me never to make an older person feel ashamed for needing a little kindness.”
Rosie tugged at Dominic's sleeve. “Daddy? Can Grandpa give me my card now?”
Frank opened the little pink envelope. Inside was a handmade birthday card and a photograph of Frank holding Rosie when she was a baby. Beneath it, he had written: Eight years ago, you made an old man feel young again. I hope I get to watch you grow up.
Dominic stared at the words. “Dad... why would you write that?”
Frank quietly said: “Because I didn't know if I'd be allowed back.”
Dominic slowly removed his engagement ring. He placed it on the table.
Vanessa's face went white. “Dominic?”
“There won't be a wedding. You made my daughter believe her grandfather stopped loving her. And you made my father think he needed to buy a place in my family.”
“Dominic, please. I love you.”
“And I love them. That's why this ends tonight.”
But Frank caught his son's hand. “Dominic. There's something I need to tell you. Those eighty-dollar dinners weren't why I stopped coming.”
Frank removed a folded white envelope from his jacket. He handed it to his son.
Dominic read the letter. We ask that you refrain from visiting the Moretti residence without prior written approval. We also request that you stop contacting Rosie directly...
Dominic's face went pale. “I never wrote this.”
“But it has your name,” Frank trembled.
Dominic looked at the signature. He turned toward Vanessa. “Who wrote this?”
Vanessa looked toward the empty chair where Anthony, Dominic's younger brother, had been sitting.
Frank nodded slowly. “Anthony came to see me. He said you were trying to start a new life. And that sometimes a son needs distance from the people who remind him of where he came from.”
Dominic gently put one hand on his father's shoulder. “Dad, there's no version of my life where you're not welcome.”
Dominic turned toward Vanessa. “Where's Anthony?”
“I don't know.”
Frank caught his sleeve. “Son. There's another page. The one Anthony made me sign.”
Frank removed a folded sheet of paper. It declared that Frank had voluntarily surrendered his authority as trustee of a family account established by Dominic's late mother.
Dominic looked at the witness line. Vanessa Bellini.
“You witnessed this?” Dominic demanded.
Vanessa cried. “Anthony said the money needed to be moved before the wedding.”
Frank looked confused. “Son, there wasn't much money in that account. Your mother started it when you boys were little.”
Dominic stared at the paper. His mother had created the trust shortly before she died. It held a sealed envelope she'd instructed Frank to give her sons only when both men were ready.
Dominic looked toward Vanessa. “Did Anthony take the envelope from the trust?”
She whispered: “Yes.”
Frank's hand flew to his mouth. “That was your mother's letter.”
Frank's eyes filled with tears. “Your mother didn't write that letter for both of you. She wrote it for you. And she made me promise not to give it to you until Anthony told you the truth himself.”
Dominic froze. “What truth?”
“The reason your mother asked me to keep the boys apart after she died,” Frank whispered. “You were old enough to remember. But Anthony wasn't supposed to know.”
Before Dominic could ask another question, his phone rang. Anthony.
Dominic answered. “Where are you?”
Anthony's voice sounded strained. “Dom, listen to me. Don't let Dad open Mom's letter.”
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“Why?”
Anthony swallowed. “Because Vanessa told me she destroyed the photograph. The one that proves Dad has been protecting the wrong son all these years.”
