Chapter 13
The old Ferrante council met without Vincent for the first time.
He had chaired it for twenty-two years.
His empty seat bothered people.
Good.
I left it empty.
One capo suggested moving someone into it.
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because not every vacancy needs inheritance.”
That became larger than a chair.
I ended the custom allowing elders to make binding decisions about where children lived after a parent died or became unavailable.
No more quiet placement agreements.
No more branch balancing through minors.
Family could help.
Not own.
Some men complained.
One said:
“This is because of your children.”
“Yes.”
I did not pretend otherwise.
“Sometimes leadership learns because something becomes personal.”
Then I added:
“The rule still applies when it isn’t my child.”
That mattered.
Cecilia’s story became known inside the family.
Only what she approved.
No details she wanted private.
Vincent tried to defend himself through allies.
He said Cecilia had been wild.
Immature.
Influenced by Thomas.
Classic.
Discredit the person whose choice embarrassed the structure.
Cecilia sent one message through me:
I was seventeen. Being seventeen is not permission to imprison me until I become convenient.
I read it once at the table.
No one argued afterward.
Then Arthur asked whether St. Catherine’s should be sold.
I thought.
“No.”
Rafe looked surprised.
We converted it.
Not into a school.
Not a memorial.
Into a voluntary retreat for Ferrante families who needed distance from the main organization.
Voluntary meant something simple.
Doors unlocked.
Cars available.
No one required permission to leave.
Cecilia laughed when I told her.
“Rich people finally invent hotels.”
Fair.
May you like
She refused to visit.
Also fair.
