Chapter 3 - The Dinner Table Revolution
The dining room of the Moretti mansion had not been used for a family meal since Isabella’s funeral. Gabriel typically ate at his desk or in high-end steak houses surrounded by lieutenants and business associates.
At 6:30 p.m. sharp, the massive crystal chandelier above the mahogany table burned with bright, warm light.
Emma sat on the left side of the table, wearing a simple burgundy wrap dress that hugged her soft curves gracefully. On her right sat Leo and Lucas in booster seats, while Liam occupied a high chair beside her. Across from them sat Gabriel, impeccably dressed in a dark blue shirt, carving a roasted chicken with practiced precision.
Four security guards stood stationed at the corners of the room, looking visibly uncomfortable as toddlers threw peas across the hand-carved mahogany surface.
“Lucas, green things belong in your mouth, not on Mr. Vance’s shoes,” Emma instructed gently, catching a stray pea before it could land on the security chief's boots.
Frank Vance didn't flinch, but his lips twitched into a small, rare smile.
Gabriel set his carving knife down and watched Emma handle his sons. She moved with effortless grace, wiping Liam’s chin with one napkin while helping Leo cut his chicken with another, all while maintaining a steady flow of conversation about tractors and farm animals.
“They are usually quieter,” Gabriel noted, taking a sip of his red wine.
“They were suppressing themselves,” Emma replied, handing Liam a spoonful of mashed potatoes. “Children aren't meant to sit like statues, Mr. Moretti. Eating should be a happy time.”
“In my family, eating is a functional time,” Gabriel remarked dryly.
“Well, your family now includes three toddlers who think mashed potatoes are building material,” Emma smiled, pointing to Lucas, who was currently attempting to construct a small fortress on his plate.
Gabriel looked down at Lucas’s plate. A small, involuntary chuckle escaped his throat—a sound so rare that two guards near the doorway immediately shifted their stance in surprise.
Emma froze, her hazel eyes lighting up as she looked at Gabriel. “You smiled.”
“I did not,” Gabriel denied smoothly, taking another drink of his wine.
“You did,” Emma insisted, her cheeks flushing with warmth. “It was definitely a smile. A bit rusty, but definitely a smile.”
Gabriel’s eyes locked onto hers over the rim of his glass. The playful challenge in her voice did something to him that no corporate victory or rival threat ever could. It made him feel alive. It made him realize how empty his life had been before this curvy, stubborn woman walked into his home and disrupted everything.
“Be careful, Miss Brooks,” Gabriel murmured, his voice laced with low heat. “Familiarity with the boss can be a dangerous thing.”
“I’m not afraid of you, Mr. Moretti,” Emma replied quietly, her voice dropping so only he could hear over the boys’ chatter.
“You should be,” Gabriel said softly. “Everyone else is.”
“Everyone else doesn't see you when you look at your sons,” Emma said softly. “You act like an iron wall, but you’re just trying to keep them from breaking. I know what that feels like.”
Gabriel’s expression softened. “Do you?”
“My father died when I was twelve,” Emma shared, her eyes lingering on her plate for a brief moment. “My mother closed all the curtains in our house for a year. She thought she was protecting us from the world. All she did was make us forget what the sun looked like. I swore I’d never let another child grow up in the dark.”
Gabriel felt a sudden, sharp ache in his chest. He reached across the table, his long, calloused fingers briefly brushing over her knuckles. The contact was brief, but it sent an electric charge through both of them.
“They aren't in the dark anymore,” Gabriel said quietly. “Not since you arrived.”
Before Emma could answer, the double doors of the dining room burst open.
A tall, broad-shouldered man in a dark grey suit stepped into the room, flanked by two armed guards. His face was weathered, his hair graying at the temples, and his eyes burned with an old, bitter hostility.
It was Marco Moretti—Gabriel’s uncle, and the man who had lost the syndicate leadership race to Gabriel three years prior.
“Uncle Marco,” Gabriel said smoothly, not rising from his chair. “I don't recall inviting you to dinner.”
Marco’s eyes swept over the scene—the bright lights, the children’s toys, the laughter, and finally, Emma sitting beside Gabriel. A cold, mocking sneer spread across his face.
“I came to bring you important news regarding our Boston shipping routes, Gabriel,” Marco said, his voice grating against the quiet room. “But I see you’re busy playing happy family with the staff.”
Gabriel’s posture changed instantly. The relaxed father disappeared; the ruthless mafia boss returned in a single breath. He picked up his linen napkin, wiped his hands, and stood up to his full height.
“Take the boys upstairs, Emma,” Gabriel commanded, his voice cold as ice.
Emma didn't hesitate. She quickly unbuckled Liam, gathered Leo and Lucas by their hands, and ushered them toward the side staff door. As she passed Marco, the older man caught her arm, his fingers digging into her green sweater.
“Who is this little peasant, Gabriel?” Marco sneered, looking down at Emma with contempt. “Another replacement for Isabella?”
Before Marco could take another breath, Gabriel was across the room.
May you like
A sickening crunch echoed through the dining room as Gabriel’s hand clamped around Marco’s wrist, twisting it until the older man dropped to his knees with a hoarse shout of pain.
“Touch her again,” Gabriel whispered into Marco’s ear, his voice dripping with absolute venom, “and I will cut off your hand and mail it to your wife.”
