Chapter 7 - Please Stay
Lucian did not speak for several seconds.
Camille watched his face empty of every emotion.
“Matteo,” he said finally, “say that again.”
Their father had supposedly died six years earlier.
Heart attack.
Closed funeral.
Private burial.
Lucian had arranged everything.
But Matteo had found a man waiting inside the Moretti mansion that morning.
Older.
Thin.
Walking with a cane.
Yet unmistakable.
Salvatore Moretti.
Their father.
Lucian drove home with Camille beside him.
This time she did not tell him to slow down.
They found Matteo in the dining room.
And Salvatore at the head of the table.
The irony was not lost on Camille.
The same room where she had ordered Lucian to say please.
The old man smiled.
“Lucian.”
Lucian stopped ten feet away.
“You’re dead.”
“Legally, perhaps.”
Matteo stood beside the window.
His face was white with fury.
Salvatore looked at Camille.
“Marianne’s girl.”
Camille said nothing.
“You look like your mother.”
“So everyone keeps telling me.”
Lucian stepped forward.
“Why?”
Salvatore smiled.
“You always did ask the wrong question.”
“What is the right one?”
“Why come back now?”
Lucian waited.
Salvatore looked toward the windows.
“Vincent became sloppy.”
“He’s in federal custody.”
“He’ll talk.”
“You’re afraid.”
Salvatore laughed.
“Of prison?”
“Of being irrelevant.”
The smile disappeared.
Camille watched Lucian closely.
Six weeks ago, perhaps even six days ago, he might have lunged across the table.
Now he remained still.
Salvatore noticed too.
“What happened to you?”
Lucian glanced toward Camille.
“I learned manners.”
Matteo laughed once.
Even Camille smiled.
Salvatore did not.
He reached inside his coat.
Lucian’s guards raised weapons.
Camille’s heart stopped.
Salvatore removed an envelope.
Nothing else.
He placed it on the table.
“Your mother’s original recording.”
Lucian stared.
“I have copies.”
“So do I.”
“Why bring it?”
“Because I want a deal.”
Lucian laughed softly.
“With me?”
“You still control enough judges and businesses to help me leave the country.”
“No.”
Salvatore stared at him.
“I’m your father.”
Lucian’s expression did not change.
“That stopped being useful years ago.”
The old man looked toward Matteo.
“You?”
Matteo shook his head.
“No chance.”
“You boys think this woman changed you?”
Matteo smiled.
“She certainly improved dinner.”
Salvatore’s face hardened.
“You’re weak.”
Lucian answered calmly.
“No.”
He took one step forward.
“You taught us fear was strength.”
Another.
“You taught us control was love.”
Another.
“You taught us silence was loyalty.”
He stopped.
“My mother taught me better.”
Salvatore stood.
Lucian did not move.
“And what did she teach you?”
Lucian glanced at Camille.
“To ask instead of command.”
He looked at Matteo.
“To listen before judging.”
Then back at his father.
“And to know when someone no longer deserves a seat at your table.”
Federal agents entered through the side doors.
Salvatore spun around.
Camille exhaled.
Matteo had called them before Lucian arrived.
This time there was no violence.
No revenge.
No blood.
Only handcuffs.
Salvatore stared at Lucian as an agent took his arms.
“You’ll regret humiliating your father.”
Lucian shook his head.
“I’m not humiliating you.”
He glanced at Camille.
“I’m allowing consequences.”
Camille smiled.
Best lesson yet.
Three months later, the Belladonna Foundation reopened.
Not under Moretti control.
That had been Camille’s condition.
Independent board.
Audited finances.
Professional security.
Transparent donor records.
Margaret Baines became an advisor.
Matteo became director of community outreach.
Everyone expected disaster.
Instead, he became excellent at it.
His humor put frightened people at ease.
His anger, finally aimed somewhere useful, turned into relentless advocacy.
He still hated formal dinners.
Camille considered that acceptable.
Lucian changed too.
Slowly.
He sold businesses connected to his father’s criminal network.
Closed others.
Cooperated with investigations.
There were consequences.
Financial.
Social.
Legal.
But not the dramatic kind newspapers hoped for.
He was never an innocent man.
Camille never pretended otherwise.
He simply decided he was finished being the man his father trained him to become.
That mattered more.
The foundation’s reopening dinner took place in the same dining room where Camille first touched Lucian’s chest.
Matteo entered wearing a tuxedo.
His bow tie was crooked.
Camille immediately fixed it.
“I knew you missed me.”
“I missed charging you.”
He grinned.
Across the room, Lucian watched them.
Dark suit.
No tattoos hidden now.
No attempt to look less intimidating.
He simply looked like himself.
When dinner began, Camille discovered her place card beside his.
She sat.
Lucian pulled out her chair.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Matteo stared from across the table.
“I feel sick.”
Camille ignored him.
Dinner proceeded flawlessly.
Almost.
Matteo used the wrong fork intentionally.
Camille kicked him under the table.
He laughed.
Lucian smiled openly.
Nobody in the room stopped breathing.
Nobody dropped a spoon.
Nobody feared what the smile meant.
After the guests left, Camille stood alone near the dining table.
Lucian approached.
“I have a question.”
Camille turned.
“Did you remember to say please?”
“I haven’t asked yet.”
“Progress.”
He stopped in front of her.
The exact position from their first meeting.
Same chandelier.
Same table.
Different people.
Lucian looked unusually uncertain.
Camille waited.
“I’ve spent most of my life thinking if I wanted something, I had to take control of it.”
Camille said nothing.
“You taught me some things can only be given.”
Her heartbeat quickened.
Lucian continued.
“I don’t know what happens next.”
“That makes two of us.”
“I don’t know if I deserve it.”
“That isn’t your decision alone.”
He smiled faintly.
“Right.”
For once, Lucian Moretti looked almost shy.
“Camille Brooks.”
“Yes?”
“Would you have dinner with me?”
She glanced around.
“We just had dinner.”
He closed his eyes.
She laughed.
“A real dinner.”
“What makes this one fake?”
“No donors.”
“Good.”
“No Matteo.”
From the hallway, Matteo shouted, “I heard that.”
Camille laughed harder.
Lucian called back, “Go away.”
Matteo shouted, “Say please.”
Lucian stared toward the hallway.
Camille folded her arms.
He sighed.
“Please go away.”
Matteo’s laughter disappeared into the distance.
Lucian looked at Camille again.
“Dinner?”
Camille pretended to consider.
“Ask properly.”
He knew exactly what she meant.
Lucian Moretti, once the most feared man in half the rooms he entered, placed one hand over Camille’s.
No ownership.
No pressure.
Just an invitation.
“Camille, would you please have dinner with me tomorrow?”
She smiled.
“Yes.”
His relief was so obvious she almost teased him.
Instead, she leaned closer.
“You’re getting better.”
“At manners?”
“At being human.”
Lucian looked at her for a long moment.
Then he said quietly, “You were right.”
“About what?”
“I hired you for the wrong man.”
Camille smiled.
“Actually, I think you hired me for both of you.”
Lucian laughed.
It was warm.
Uncontrolled.
Real.
From the hallway, Matteo yelled, “I still need help!”
Camille called back, “You’re hopeless.”
“RUDE!”
Lucian laughed harder.
Camille looked around the dining room.
Months earlier, she had entered believing she was there to teach a reckless younger brother which fork to use.
Instead, she found a family living beneath rules nobody had written down.
Fear meant loyalty.
Control meant protection.
Silence meant strength.
She had broken every one.
Not by force.
By asking questions.
By demanding respect.
By refusing to mistake intimidation for authority.
And Lucian had done the hardest thing of all.
He had listened.
Camille picked up her coat.
Lucian reached for it.
She handed it over.
He helped her into it.
“Tomorrow at seven?” he asked.
“Seven-thirty.”
“Seven.”
“Seven-thirty.”
“Camille.”
She raised an eyebrow.
He caught himself immediately.
“Seven-thirty, please.”
She smiled.
“Perfect.”
They walked toward the front door.
Lucian opened it.
Chicago lights stretched beyond the mansion gates.
Camille stepped outside.
Then she turned.
Lucian stood in the doorway.
For once, he was not commanding anyone.
Not guarding a secret.
Not carrying eight years of guilt.
He was simply waiting.
Camille held out her hand.
“Are you coming?”
Lucian looked at it.
Then at her.
He took her hand.
May you like
“Yes.”
And this time, neither of them needed to be taught what came next.
