Chapter 8 - The Unbroken Circle
Later that night, after the last gallery guest had departed and the heavy glass doors were locked against the hum of the city, the six of us sat around a long wooden table in the back office of the gallery.
Takeout boxes of gourmet Italian food—hand-selected by Matteo from our family’s favorite old-world restaurant in Little Italy—were piled high across the center of the table, alongside two bottles of aged Barolo.
Dominic popped the cork of the second bottle with a practiced, effortless twist, pouring a generous glass for me and sliding it across the wood.
“To new beginnings,” Dominic said, raising his glass high.
“To new beginnings,” we all chorused together, the crystal glasses ringing out with a clear, resonant tone that filled the quiet room.
I took a sip of the rich, velvety wine, letting the warmth spread through my chest.
Life wasn't perfect. Scars remained—the physical ones fading slowly into pale silver lines across my back, and the emotional ones serving as a permanent reminder of how close I had come to losing myself in a gilded cage.
But as I looked around the table at my brothers—the men who had torn down an empire with a single phone call because someone had dared to hurt their sister—I knew that I would never be small again.
I was no longer the quiet girl, the timid wife, or the outsider who had to earn her place in a ruthless world.
I was a Moretti.
And this time, the world was going to learn my name on my own terms.
“So,” Gabriel said, leaning back in his chair with a smirk as he reached for another slice of garlic bread. “What’s the theme for the next art collection?”
May you like
I smiled, setting my wine glass down and looking toward the front windows of the gallery, where the lights of New York City glittered against the midnight sky like a million scattered diamonds.
“Freedom,” I said softly. “And fire.”
