Chapter 2
Arthur refused to leave the dinner.
I wanted him inside.
He said no.
“They threw me onto my own lawn.”
His voice remained dry.
“I’m not letting them chase me off it too.”
My father could be impossible.
Tonight I allowed it.
His wheelchair was returned and checked carefully. He settled back into it while I stood beside him.
Luca remained twenty feet away under guard.
Not because I feared he would run.
Because I did not yet know how deeply my own son had betrayed me.
I asked Arthur what he had intended to announce.
He sighed.
“For twelve years, I told myself keeping the Founder’s Chair was harmless.”
It had begun when Arthur founded DeLuca with five original captains.
At major dinners, he sat at the head.
After he retired, the tradition continued.
I became head of the organization.
He remained founder.
Two centers.
Operational power with me.
Emotional legitimacy with him.
I had tolerated it because he was my father.
Arthur had tolerated it because, if he was honest, he liked being needed.
“Why end it now?”
He looked toward Luca.
“Because your son started asking who sits there when I die.”
My chest tightened.
“How long?”
“Six months.”
Luca had never asked me.
Of course not.
Arthur told him repeatedly that the chair should die with its founder.
But three weeks ago, Luca overheard Arthur telling an old capo:
“After my birthday, there will be no Arthur in the head seat.”
Luca apparently heard only the vacancy.
Then Declan Rourke supplied the meaning.
I walked toward my son.
“Declan told you Grandfather was naming you?”
Luca shook his head.
“Not exactly.”
I almost smiled.
That phrase always means worse.
“He said Arthur wouldn’t humiliate me publicly after preparing me privately.”
“Preparing you how?”
Luca looked away.
Dinner invitations.
Introductions.
Private conversations with old captains.
Small privileges Arthur gave him because he was family.
Luca interpreted them as succession signals.
Declan encouraged that interpretation.
Then Camille entered Luca’s life.
Beautiful.
Ambitious.
Warm when useful.
Cold when challenged.
And apparently convinced that marrying my son placed her one birthday dinner away from sitting beside a new DeLuca patriarch.
I looked back at the guests.
“Who else believed this?”
No one answered.
Arthur lifted one hand.
“Valeria.”
I looked at him.
“Ask who toasted when I fell.”
May you like
I understood.
They already had.
