Chapter 8 - The Boy on the Stairs
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Vanessa’s face hardened into an ugly, defensive mask. The sweet fiancée act dropped completely.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Luca!” Vanessa snapped, throwing her hands in the air. “Look at it! It’s crooked! It’s a piece of junk made out of dirty scrap wood. It doesn't belong here!”
Luca stared at her, his eyes dead and cold. “My son made it.”
“He’s twelve years old, Luca!” she argued, stepping closer.
“Exactly,” Luca fired back, his voice finally rising, echoing off the mahogany bookshelves.
Vanessa crossed her arms, her diamond engagement ring catching the firelight. “You have thirty people sitting downstairs right now. Billionaires, politicians, men you do business with. They are bringing you Rolexes, rare vintage wines, priceless artwork—”
“And my son brought me something he made with his grandfather’s hands still in the wood,” Luca interrupted, his voice cutting through her words like a machete.
Vanessa stopped talking. Her mouth hung open slightly, realizing she had crossed a line she could not retreat from.
Luca turned his attention back to the box. He unlatched the small metal hook on the front and opened the lid. Inside, resting in the narrow slot meant for the fountain pen, was a folded piece of paper. The edges of the paper were singed brown from the fire.
He unfolded it. He read it in silence.
Then, he read it again.
I watched as the most dangerous man in Chicago let out a ragged, shaky breath. His eyes filled with unshed tears. Without a word, he turned and handed the note to me.
I looked down at Matteo’s messy handwriting.
Dad, I know Grandpa can’t come to your wedding. So I used part of his bench. Now both of you can be there.
Luca closed his eyes, his jaw clenching tight. He carefully closed the wooden box, tucking it securely under his left arm. He didn't look at Vanessa again. He turned his back on her and walked out of the library, heading straight for the grand staircase in the foyer.
“Matteo!” Luca’s voice boomed through the massive house, halting the string quartet in the other room.
A few seconds later, a bedroom door opened upstairs. Matteo appeared slowly at the top of the landing. He was wearing his little black suit, his tie perfectly knotted. His eyes were red and puffy from crying.
Luca stood at the bottom of the stairs, holding up the burned wooden box.
“Did you make this for me?” Luca asked gently.
Matteo nodded, gripping the banister. “I’m sorry it’s crooked, Dad.”
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Luca’s stoic face finally broke. He took the stairs two at a time. And right there, in front of the thirty wealthy guests beginning to gather in the hallway to see what the commotion was, the ruthless mafia boss dropped to one knee and pulled his son tightly against his chest.
“I wouldn't straighten one piece of it, buddy,” Luca whispered fiercely into his son's hair.
