Chapter 7 - The Sister’s Ledger
The sunlit breakfast conservatory of the Greenwich manor was filled with the scents of warm brioche, fresh strawberries, and dark roast espresso.
Celeste sat at the round wrought-iron table, wearing an oversized cream sweater that Mara had lent her, her blond hair pulled back in a loose, comfortable ponytail. The pale, terrified porcelain doll from the St. Regis ballroom had vanished, replaced by a twenty-four-year-old girl whose eyes were beginning to sparkle with the first genuine laughter of her adult life.
On the table between them sat an open legal portfolio containing the master restructuring plan for the Beluchcci maritime assets.
Dante sat at the head of the table, reading the morning edition of the Wall Street Journal, an espresso cup balanced in his fingers, occasionally looking up to watch the two sisters with quiet, protective amusement.
“So... you’re telling me I own forty percent of the Brooklyn container terminal?” Celeste asked, her eyes wide as she pointed a manicured finger at paragraph twelve of the trust deed.
“You own forty percent of the underlying equity, Celeste,” Mara smiled, pouring fresh orange juice into her sister’s glass. “Under an independent spendthrift trust managed by Dante’s primary corporate counsel. You receive forty-five thousand dollars a month in unencumbered dividends, fully vested, tax-exempt, in perpetuity.”
Celeste dropped her fork, her lower lip trembling with sudden, overwhelming emotion.
“Mara... why? Mother spent twelve years using me as bait to secure a criminal marriage. I never reached out to you. I never looked for you—”
“You were twelve years old when Mother put me on that train, Celeste,” Mara said gently, reaching across the table to take her sister’s trembling hand in hers.
“You were a child trapped in a house of mirrors. You didn't have the power to fight her, but you have the power now. You don't have to marry a mobster’s son to survive. You don't have to ask a man for permission to buy a dress, open a bank account, or go to art school in Paris.”
Celeste covered her mouth with both hands, tears of pure, joyful relief spilling over her lashes.
“Art school...” Celeste choked out, a watery laugh escaping her throat. “Mother threw my sketchbooks into the fireplace when I was sixteen. She said girls from our family don't paint; they host charity galas.”
“Your enrollment application for the Sorbonne was approved yesterday afternoon, Celeste,” Dante spoke from behind his newspaper, his low baritone carrying effortless, casual authority.
Celeste gasped, her head snapping toward her brother-in-law. “What?”
Dante folded his paper, laid it on the table, and took a slow sip of his espresso.
“The Dean of Fine Arts at the University of Paris is an old friend of my family’s maritime foundation,” Dante said, his lips twitching with the faintest, dangerous smile. “He reviewed your portfolio last night. You have an apartment on the Boulevard Saint-Germain waiting for you, and a private security detail assigned to the building. You depart on Friday.”
Celeste leaped up from her chair, ran around the table, and threw her arms around Dante’s neck, hugging the most feared mob boss on the Eastern Seaboard as if he were an affectionate older brother.
“Thank you! Oh, thank you, Dante!”
Dante went slightly stiff for half a second—clearly unaccustomed to being hugged by enthusiastic twenty-four-year-old art students—before his hand came up to pat her shoulder with awkward, gentle paternal warmth.
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“You’re family, Celeste,” Dante murmured, his gray eyes catching Mara’s over her sister’s shoulder, blazing with an unshakeable, sacred devotion.
“And in this family... nobody gets traded away ever again.”
