Chapter 6 - A Seat at the Head of the Table
By ten o'clock that evening, the snow had stopped completely, leaving the Chicago estate blanketed in a serene, silver hush beneath a clear, star-lit sky.
The twenty-two relatives who had been ordered to leave had gathered their bags in humble, terrified silence, departing in a fleet of black town cars. Only Roman, Hannah, and Bianca remained inside the grand estate.
The fire in the dining room burned bright and warm once more.
The long mahogany table, which had been the arena of so much cruelty hours earlier, was now cleared of the chaos. In the center sat three simple places set with hot soup, fresh crusty bread, and a bottle of vintage wine.
Bianca sat on the left side of the table. She looked tired, her eyes still red from crying, but a profound sense of peace had settled over her features. The cold, artificial arrogance that had defined her for decades had melted away, leaving a soft, genuine warmth in its place.
Roman pulled out the heavy carved armchair at the very head of the table—the seat traditionally reserved exclusively for the head of the Duca empire.
He looked at Hannah.
"Sit here, my love," Roman said gently, gesturing to the head of the table.
Hannah paused, smiling faintly. "Roman, that’s your seat. Or your mother’s."
Bianca looked up, offering a tearful, eager smile. "No, Hannah. Roman is right. That seat belongs to the person who holds this family together. That person is you."
Hannah looked from Bianca’s earnest eyes to Roman’s proud, loving smile.
She stepped forward and took her seat at the head of the table.
Roman poured three glasses of dark red wine. He raised his glass, looking across the table at his wife.
"To Hannah," Roman said, his voice deep and steady. "The smartest, strongest, and most beautiful woman I have ever known. The true heart of the Duca family."
Bianca raised her glass, her hands perfectly steady now. "To Hannah. My daughter."
Hannah felt a deep, radiating warmth fill her chest—a warmth that had nothing to do with the roaring fireplace or the fine wine. She had faced down prejudice, betrayal, and violence not with anger, but with absolute truth, unyielding dignity, and unwavering love.
She raised her glass, clinking it gently against theirs.
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"To family," Hannah whispered, a brilliant, breathtaking smile lighting up her face. "And to new beginnings."
Outside the tall arched windows, the moonlight danced across the pristine white snow of Chicago, reflecting the absolute peace that had finally found its home inside the Duca mansion.
