Chapter 8 - SOPHIE HAYES, NOT THE MAID
Two years after Vanessa’s engagement dinner, Maria Santos offered me partnership.
Ten percent.
Earned through sweat equity and a bank loan.
I cried in the office.
Maria pretended not to notice.
Our catering company expanded into corporate events and private weddings.
I found that ironic.
The woman publicly humiliated at an engagement dinner now made money ensuring other people’s dinners ran perfectly.
Robert retired.
For six weeks.
Then appeared at our kitchen every Thursday because “retirement was poorly designed.”
My mother kept her house.
Not because Luca paid it.
Because I refinanced the mortgage with my increased income and helped restructure her debts.
The first time Luca visited my mother, she asked:
“Are you dangerous?”
I nearly died.
Luca answered:
“Yes.”
My mother stared.
“At least you don't lie.”
Then:
“Are you dangerous to Sophie?”
Luca looked at me.
“No.”
“Good.”
She gave him pie.
Apparently that was the interview.
We started dating three months later.
Actually dating.
Public restaurant.
My car.
My choice.
No Moretti driver.
I almost canceled twice.
Luca knew.
He never asked.
At dinner, he said:
“This is strange.”
“What?”
“I know more about your employment history than your favorite movie.”
“That is because you used to sign my paychecks.”
“Not romantic.”
“Exactly.”
He learned.
My favorite movie.
How I took coffee.
That I hated roses.
That I loved old bookstores.
I learned that Luca had insomnia.
Could play piano badly.
Was terrified of hospitals despite pretending otherwise.
And carried guilt like a second skeleton.
We fought too.
Once he tried to run a background check on a new supplier without asking.
I found out.
“Absolutely not.”
“Sophie, they’re handling events at properties tied to—”
“I know how to vet vendors.”
“They could be dangerous.”
“So could you.”
That stopped him.
“I’m sorry.”
“Are you?”
“Yes.”
“Then trust me to run my own business.”
He did.
Painfully.
The relationship survived.
That mattered more than never making mistakes.
Julian visited Chicago regularly by then.
He and Luca had developed an ugly, affectionate brotherhood built largely around insulting Salvatore’s taste in furniture.
Julian met me at dinner.
“So you're Sophie.”
I frowned.
“What does that mean?”
He looked at Luca.
“He talked about you for a year before asking you out.”
Luca looked furious.
I smiled.
“A year?”
Julian drank his wine.
“Tragic.”
I liked him immediately.
The family changed.
Not into saints.
That would have been dishonest.
Luca still controlled businesses where people feared disappointing him.
His name still carried weight in Chicago.
But he separated legitimate operations from the ugliest parts of the old family structure.
Some revenue disappeared.
Some men left.
Luca let them.
He began using outside compliance instead of loyalty as governance.
Victor called it expensive.
Julian called it adulthood.
I called it overdue.
May you like
All correct.
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