Chapter 6

Stella

A week later, I'd pressed the mess down piece by piece.

Marchetti caved on the third day after the demand letter went out. We laid it all on their table—written testimonies from the four people at that meeting, every email thread hinting at the waiver clause, the draft minutes the secretary had sent out afterward—and their lawyer called us back that same afternoon, softening from "forty-five percent of contract value in damages" to "let's sit down face-to-face one more time."

I didn't let them have a second conversation. That night I signed off on terms myself, completely removing liability for delayed delivery from Lumière's shoulders, while simultaneously transferring the goods held up at Red Hook to another Milan distributor at eighty percent of original price. They cleared dock space the next day to receive it. I had Olivia settle the dock workers' wages that same day, too—not a single person left waiting.

For the Bridge Street Plaza situation, I went straight through commercial arbitration's fast track. The new owners hadn't expected me to strike first, much less produce the original contract clause about "change of ownership not affecting lessee rights" within forty-eight hours. In the end they returned eighty percent of our deposit and agreed to let us take all removable renovation materials—lighting fixtures, flooring, custom cabinetry—truckload after truckload hauled back to the warehouse.

Danny pushed the door open just as I was sliding the last signed document into my desk drawer.

"Just finished reconciling inventory with the warehouse," he said, setting a cup of hot tea on my desk. "Not a single light fixture missing, flooring damage under three percent, and I had them repack all the cabinetry."

"Thank you."

"I'm nowhere near as exhausted as you." He settled into the chair across from me, leaning back and stretching his legs out comfortably, showing the kind of relaxed posture he only ever displayed in front of me. "Stella, look at yourself. I've been with you through this entire week, and I still don't know how you held up."

"Holding up is enough," I said.

"Holding up is the result. The process is you as a person." He looked at me, those perpetually gentle eyes now carrying something more serious. "You resolved the Marchetti situation, you resolved Bridge Street Plaza, you resolved Red Hook—all of it done, Stella, truly done. You should give yourself a break now. Let yourself rest."

I cupped the tea in both hands and realized my fingers were actually tingling slightly. This was the first time all week I'd truly let my shoulders drop.

"Thank you, Danny."

"Family doesn't say thank you," he smiled, the kind of smile from childhood, eyes crinkling slightly at the corners. "Did you forget?"

I smiled too. In that instant, everything in front of me seemed to recede into the distance, leaving only this person I'd known since we were small, and the sun slowly declining outside the window.

My phone rang.

I glanced at the screen, and those shoulders that had just relaxed tightened again, quietly, on their own.

The caller ID showed my cousin, also the current head of the Conti family: Alberto.

"I need to take this." Danny nodded, stood with his tea, and headed for the door. Before leaving he mouthed "dinner together," and without waiting for my nod, he pulled the door closed.

I pressed accept.

"Stella." Alberto's voice was always like this—steady, low, like a glass of good wine left to cool. "I hear things haven't been going smoothly for you lately."

"Your information network is reasonably current," I said. "Did Vincent tell you, or did you find out yourself?"

"Irrelevant. Marchetti, Bridge Street Plaza, the docks—if you need help, you can ask me anytime."

"Already handled."

"Handled?"

"Everything signed and sealed this morning. Bridge Street Plaza's deposit is back in the company account."

Silence on the other end for a second. "You did this alone."

"I didn't do it alone, Alberto. I have a team."

"Stella," he sighed, that particular sigh unique to Alberto—not heavy, but more uncomfortable to me than any reproach, "how long do you plan to keep struggling out there like this."

"I'm not struggling," I said. "I'm running a company, and barring any surprises, my company's revenue this year will double last year's."

"I'm not talking about the company."

"Then there's even less to discuss."

He paused for several seconds. I could hear him setting something down, then he spoke again, his tone dropping lower.

"Family matters, things between you and Diana—" he said, "I know about all of it. You don't need to explain, don't need to whitewash anything for anyone. I just want to tell you that you've been out there long enough these past two years. It's time to come home for a visit."

I was silent for a moment. "I don't get along with the people at home now."

"I know."

"I can't pretend nothing happened, can't sit at that dinner table making pleasant conversation with them."

"I know," he said. "But you're still a Conti, Stella. You don't have to be close to them, but you can't let outsiders think you've severed ties with the Conti family. This circle cares about face—you know that better than anyone."

I said nothing.

"Camille's birthday is coming up," he said calmly. "The family is hosting a dinner. I hope you'll come back for it."

I flipped open the calendar on my desk.

That line of red marking two weeks out, on a Thursday, written by my own hand—just one letter: P. Procedure. I stared at that letter for three seconds, then flipped forward a page.

Camille's birthday fell on Friday.

The day after the surgery.

I closed my eyes and ran through all the possible complications that evening in my mind—post-operative bleeding volume, whether pain medication would fail, whether I could drive, whether I could apply makeup, whether I could last two hours at that dinner table without showing any cracks. Then I opened my eyes and told myself: yes. I should be able to.

"What time," I said.

"Six o'clock. The old estate."

"I'll be there."

"Stella," his voice suddenly softened a fraction, soft enough to almost not sound like Alberto, "wear the most beautiful dress you've designed. Let them see you're doing well."

"I've never not been doing well," I said.

He laughed quietly, the first and only laugh in this entire call. "I know. Which is exactly why you need to come."