Chapter 6

Stella

A week later, I had dealt with the mess piece by piece.

Marchetti had backed down, Bridge Street Plaza's deposit had been returned, and that shipment had been transferred out within forty-eight hours. Everything seemed to be moving in the right direction. I could finally breathe and rest properly, maybe think about my own troubles for once.

Danny pushed through the door just as I was filing away the last signed document.

"Just finished reconciling with the warehouse," he said, setting a cup of hot tea on my desk. "Every light fixture accounted for, flooring damage under three percent, and I had them repackage all the cabinets."

"Thanks for handling that."

"I'm nowhere near as hardworking as you." He settled into the chair across from me, leaning back and stretching his legs out in that relaxed way he only showed around me. "Stella, look at yourself. I've been through this entire week with you, and I still don't know how you managed to pull through."

"Getting through was enough," I said.

"Getting through is the outcome. The process—that's all you." His usually gentle eyes carried something more serious now. "You handled Marchetti, you handled Bridge Street Plaza, you handled Red Hook—it's all done, Stella. Really done. You need to give yourself a break now, let yourself rest."

I cupped the tea in both hands and noticed my fingers were actually trembling slightly. This was the first time all week I'd truly let my guard down.

"Thank you, Danny."

"Family doesn't thank family," he smiled that childhood smile of his, eyes crinkling at the corners. "Remember?"

I smiled back. For that moment, everything else seemed to fade into the distance, leaving just this person I'd known since we were kids, and the sun slowly setting outside the window.

My phone rang.

I glanced at the screen, and those briefly relaxed shoulders tensed right back up.

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

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

I answered the call.

"Stella." Alberto's voice was always like this—steady, low, like good wine left to cool. "Heard you've been having some rough times."

"Your sources are reliable as always," I said. "Vincent tell you, or did you find out yourself?"

"Doesn't matter. Marchetti, Bridge Street Plaza, the docks—if you need help, just ask."

"Already handled."

"Handled?"

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

A beat of silence on his end. "You did this alone."

"I wasn't alone. Alberto, I have a team."

"Stella," he sighed—that particular sigh of his, not heavy but somehow more unsettling 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 business. And unless something goes wrong, my company's revenue will double this year."

"I'm not talking about the business."

"Then there's nothing to discuss."

He paused. I heard him set something down, then his voice came back even quieter.

"Family matters. What happened between you and Diana—" he said, "I know all of it. You don't need to explain or cover for anyone. I'm just saying you've been out there long enough these past two years. It's time to come home and show your face."

I stayed quiet for a moment. "I can't get along with the people there now."

"I know."

"I can't pretend nothing happened, can't sit at that dinner table making small talk 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 cut ties with the family. This world runs on appearances. You know that better than anyone."

I said nothing.

"Camille's birthday is coming up," he said calmly. "Family's throwing a party. I want you there."

I flipped open the calendar on my desk.

The red mark was there, two weeks out on a Thursday. I'd written it myself—just one letter: A. Adoption. I stared at it for three seconds, then turned the page.

Camille's birthday fell on Friday.

The day after my meeting.

I closed my eyes and ran through everything that could go wrong that night—whether I'd regret signing the papers, whether I could hold it together in public, whether not drinking would give away my pregnancy, and whether I could sit at that table for two hours without their faces making me sick enough to throw up. Then I opened my eyes and told myself: I can do this. I should be able to.

"What time?" I said.

"Six o'clock. The old estate."

"I'll be there."

"Stella," his voice softened slightly, almost uncharacteristically so, "wear the most beautiful dress you've ever designed. Show them you're doing well."

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

He laughed quietly—the first and only time during our entire conversation. "I know. That's exactly why you need to be there."