My father laughed at something the person on the phone said. A real laugh, not the careful one he used at parties. I tried to read meaning into the sound and came up empty.
The proposal was good. I knew it was good. I'd spent the spring building relationships with restaurateurs in Chicago and Detroit, flying out on my own dime under the pretense of visiting college friends. I'd mapped the distribution networks, identified the gaps where Moretti wines could slip in without stepping on anyone's territory. The numbers showed a thirty percent revenue increase within two years—conservative estimates, actually. I'd sandbagged the projections because my father respected caution more than optimism.
Thirty percent. Enough to prove I had value beyond my bloodline. Enough, maybe, to make him see me as an asset he couldn't afford to trade away.
The window looked out over the back gardens, where my mother's roses had long since been replaced by low-maintenance hedges. I remembered her out there in her gardening gloves, dirt under her nails, laughing when I brought her lemonade that was mostly sugar and ice. She'd died when I was eight. Road accident. The kind of accident that happened far too often in my family’s line of work.
I wondered sometimes what she would think of the woman I'd become. If she'd recognize the daughter who stood in expensive dresses with careful hair, waiting to be heard by a man who had never really listened.
My father ended his call and set the phone down on the desk. "Gemma." He said my name like he was confirming I was still there. "You wanted to speak with me."
"Yes." I crossed to the chair across from his desk but didn't sit. Sitting felt like asking permission. "I have a proposal I'd like to present. For the wine import business."
His eyebrows rose slightly. Interest, maybe. Or amusement. With my father, the two often looked the same.
"Go on."
I opened the portfolio and spread the first page across his desk—a map of the Midwest with our potential distribution points marked in red. My hands were steady. I'd made sure of that. The tremor lived somewhere deeper, in my chest, in the space between heartbeats.
"The Moretti family has dominated the East Coast wine import market for three decades," I began, falling into the rhythm I'd rehearsed. "But our Midwest presence is minimal. Chicago alone represents a two-hundred-million-dollar annual market for premium Italian wines, and we're capturing less than three percent of it."
I walked him through the research. The restaurateurs I'd met, the ones who'd expressed genuine interest in carrying our labels. The distribution partnerships that were already half-negotiated, waiting only for family approval to move forward. The timeline—aggressive but achievable, if we moved before the Valentis consolidated their hold on the Chicago hospitality scene.
My father listened without interrupting. His face gave nothing away. He turned his signet ring on his finger—a slow, deliberate rotation that I'd learned to read years ago.
It meant he was thinking. It also meant he was about to say no.
"The numbers are strong," I continued, pushing past the cold feeling spreading through my stomach. "And the risk is minimal. We'd be leveraging existing relationships, not building from scratch. I've already done the groundwork. All I need is authorization to move forward."
I stopped. The room was very quiet. Somewhere in the house, a clock chimed the hour.
My father looked at the map on his desk for a long moment. Then at me.
"This is impressive work,figlia mia."
My heart stuttered. Impressive. He'd said impressive.
"Thank you. I believe—"
"But you misunderstand your role in this family."
The words landed like stones dropped into still water. I felt the ripples before I understood the impact.
"The Caruso alliance has been planned since before you were born." My father's voice was patient, almost gentle. The voice he used when explaining something obvious to someone slow. "Vito's death changes nothing except the timeline. Dante is the new don now. He needs a wife who brings legitimacy and connection." He paused, letting the silence do its work. "You bring both."
I couldn't feel my fingers. The portfolio sat between us like evidence at a trial—all my careful research, my months of work, my desperate bid for a different kind of value.
"Papa—"
"Your mother was a Calabrese." He continued as if I hadn't spoken. "You have blood ties to three of the five families. That is your value, Gemma. Not spreadsheets."
He slid the portfolio back across the desk without opening it. Without even looking at the first page.
"The funeral is tomorrow. I've arranged for Sofia to do your hair." He was already reaching for his phone again, already moving on to more important matters. "Make yourself beautiful. Make me proud."
Dismissed.
I gathered my portfolio with hands that had finally started to shake. The leather felt cold against my palms. Three weeks of work. Months of hope.
