Chapter 8 - The Dinner Where Everyone Heard the Truth
“My mother cleaned offices.”
That was the first thing I said.
Vivien looked at the photograph again.
“What was her name?”
“Rebecca Barrett.”
Luciano sat very still.
Vivien whispered, “Rebecca.”
“You knew her?”
“I knew a Rebecca.”
My mother had died when I was twenty-three.
Cancer.
Fast.
She rarely talked about her work before I was born.
I knew she had been a bookkeeper for a few companies.
Then she became a payroll administrator.
Nothing about the Ducas.
Nothing about Daniel.
Vivien touched the edge of the photograph.
“Rebecca worked for my husband.”
My chest tightened.
“Doing what?”
“Accounts.”
Of course.
Everything suddenly felt too neat.
Too designed.
Daniel had sent the photograph because he wanted us distracted.
But that didn’t mean it was false.
Vivien explained.
Twenty years earlier, her husband’s company discovered irregular payments.
Rebecca had been part of the accounting team that flagged them.
Daniel handled the internal review.
Then the investigation disappeared.
My mother resigned shortly afterward.
“Did she steal?” I asked.
Vivien’s eyes flashed.
“No.”
The speed of the answer surprised me.
“How do you know?”
“Because your mother came to me.”
“What?”
“She said someone was moving money through vendors. She believed Daniel knew.”
My throat tightened.
“And what did you do?”
Vivien looked ashamed.
“I believed my husband when he said it was being handled.”
That hurt more than I expected.
“My mother tried to warn you.”
“Yes.”
“And nobody listened.”
“Yes.”
Luciano looked down.
Vivien didn’t hide.
“I failed her.”
Silence.
Then I understood why Daniel had targeted me so aggressively.
My surname.
Barrett.
He had recognized it.
Maybe not immediately.
But once I began questioning inventory, he checked my employment records.
Found Rebecca.
Twenty years later, another Barrett was asking questions.
He wasn’t only eliminating an inconvenient waitress.
He was eliminating history repeating itself.
Police found Daniel the next morning.
He had attempted to leave Illinois using a rental vehicle registered under an associate’s name.
The evidence from Celia’s box connected him to years of financial fraud.
Randall cooperated almost immediately.
Evelyn followed.
Celia negotiated through her attorney.
The criminal investigation would take months.
Maybe years.
But my part became clear.
I had been framed.
Officially.
Publicly.
Bellaforte’s ownership offered reinstatement.
I refused.
Then they offered money.
I didn’t immediately refuse that.
Six years of work.
Lost wages.
Retaliation.
Defamation.
The illegal camera.
The framing.
My attorney—yes, I finally got one—told me not to sign anything quickly.
Vivien approved.
“You finally learned something.”
“What?”
“Never sign anything while angry.”
“I learned that from this mess, not you.”
“Still counts.”
Weeks passed.
The story reached the press.
I hated that part.
Reporters waited outside my apartment.
Headlines called me “the waitress who exposed a multimillion-dollar scheme.”
That wasn’t true.
A lot of people exposed it.
Tyler.
Marissa.
Celia, eventually.
Investigators.
My mother, twenty years too early.
I refused interviews.
Then one headline appeared that made me laugh.
LUCIANO DUCA’S MYSTERY WAITRESS.
I showed him.
He stared at it.
“I dislike ‘mystery.’”
“That’s the part bothering you?”
“Yes.”
“Not ‘Luciano Duca’s’?”
His eyes met mine.
“That depends.”
“On?”
“Whether it bothers you.”
“It does.”
He nodded.
“Then it bothers me.”
That answer did something inconvenient to my chest.
We had become friends.
Carefully.
Slowly.
He never sent cars without asking.
Never used influence to make decisions for me.
Never treated my body like something I should be grateful he found attractive.
That mattered more than I expected.
One evening, we ate pizza in my apartment.
Actual pizza.
Cardboard box.
Paper plates.
He looked absurdly expensive sitting on my old couch.
“You know,” I said, “the internet thinks you own seventeen yachts.”
“I own zero yachts.”
“Disappointing.”
“I get seasick.”
I laughed so hard I nearly dropped my slice.
He looked offended.
“You’re telling people?”
“Immediately.”
Then he laughed too.
Things could have ended there.
They almost did.
Until Vivien invited everyone involved in the investigation to a private dinner.
Not at Bellaforte.
At a smaller restaurant owned by an old friend.
Tyler came.
Marissa.
Several employees who had supported me.
Celia did not.
She was still dealing with legal consequences.
At dessert, Vivien stood.
“I owe someone an apology.”
I wanted to disappear.
She looked at me.
“Twenty years ago, a woman tried to tell my family something was wrong. We did not listen carefully enough.”
The room became silent.
“Her daughter did the same.”
Vivien’s voice tightened.
“This time, I listened.”
She raised her glass.
“To Rebecca Barrett.”
My eyes filled.
Everyone raised theirs.
I whispered, “Mom.”
Later, Luciano found me outside.
“You okay?”
“No.”
He waited.
I smiled through tears.
“But maybe that’s okay.”
He stood beside me.
Then he said, “I need to tell you something.”
I groaned.
“Those words have ruined my year.”
“This might ruin the evening.”
I turned toward him.
He looked nervous.
Luciano Duca.
Nervous.
That was new.
“I like you,” he said.
I blinked.
“That’s the terrifying secret?”
“I’m not finished.”
“Oh.”
“I’ve liked you since you told my mother her empty stomach was more dangerous than salmon.”
“That’s disturbingly specific.”
“I like that you don’t need me.”
My smile faded slightly.
He continued.
“But I hope someday you might want me.”
There was no demand.
No assumption.
Just an offer.
I looked at him.
“I might.”
His expression changed.
“Might?”
“Don’t get greedy.”
He laughed.
Then my phone vibrated.
An email.
From my attorney.
Subject:
FINAL BELLAFORTE SETTLEMENT — OWNERSHIP PROPOSAL.
I opened it.
Read the first paragraph.
Then the second.
My mouth fell open.
Luciano looked concerned.
“What?”
I read one sentence again.
Bellaforte wasn’t simply offering money.
They were offering me something I had never imagined.
May you like
And beneath the proposal was a handwritten note from Vivien:
Don’t answer until you know what you’re worth.
