Chapter 9
Arthur’s birthday cake was replaced the next afternoon.
His demand.
“I’m eighty-two.”
He looked offended.
“I’m not losing cake because your family is dramatic.”
Our family.
He enjoyed saying your when annoyed.
We ate inside with only immediate relatives.
Luca came.
Camille did not.
Arthur’s wheelchair stood beside the table.
The Founder’s Chair remained empty.
A tall carved chair at the head.
My father looked at it for a long time.
Then told a bodyguard:
“Take it away.”
Everyone stopped.
The chair had been in family photographs for forty years.
Arthur sat in it when deals were announced.
When marriages toasted.
When captains were welcomed.
When my mother died.
When I became head.
“Now?”
I asked.
“Especially now.”
Two men lifted it.
Luca watched.
Something in his face broke.
Not grief.
Release, maybe.
Arthur noticed.
“You thought that chair would make people see you differently.”
Luca looked down.
“Yes.”
My father took a bite of cake.
“It makes your back hurt.”
I laughed.
So did Valeria’s head capo standing nearby.
Even Luca smiled.
Then Arthur became serious.
“Power that needs furniture is insecure.”
That line stayed with me.
He asked where the chair would go.
I said storage.
He shook his head.
“No.”
Then:
“Cut it.”
Luca looked up.
Arthur continued.
“Make benches. Small ones.”
I almost laughed.
“You want to turn the Founder’s Chair into benches?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“So more than one person can sit.”
My father could be theatrical too.
At least he knew it.
I agreed.
Not because symbols solve systems.
Because sometimes ending a symbol publicly helps people accept the system has changed.
Then Luca asked:
“What happens to me?”
Arthur looked at me.
My decision.
I answered honestly.
“I don’t know yet.”
My son nodded.
May you like
No argument.
Progress starts when entitled people learn uncertainty will not kill them.
