Chapter 6 - The Feast of the Seven
Two weeks later, the rain had finally cleared, leaving behind a crisp, golden October afternoon that smelled of burning leaves and apple cider.
The Queens Family Court room was small, airless, and smelled of old floor wax and cheap coffee.
Judge Miller sat behind the high oak bench, his dark robes draped over his thin shoulders, his silver-rimmed glasses resting on the tip of his nose.
"In the matter of Cruz v. Valente," Judge Miller read from the blue folder in front of him, his voice droning through the quiet room. "The petitioner, Julian Cruz, has submitted a formal notice of withdrawal of all claims, with prejudice."
He looked over his glasses at my attorney—Arthur Vance’s senior partner, a man who charged eight hundred dollars an hour and had spent the entire ten minutes playing with a silver pen.
"The court notes," Judge Miller continued, "that Miss Valente has provided verified documentation of full-time employment with Rinaldi Logistics Inc., a three-year lease on a residential property in Westchester County, and an established trust account for the minor child, Lucia Valente."
He brought his heavy wooden gavel down with a sharp THWACK.
"Custody remains solely with the mother. Case dismissed."
I didn't move for three seconds.
The air in the courtroom felt light, cool, and sweet, as if a weight that had been crushing my ribs for two years had suddenly been lifted off my chest.
I turned around.
Victor was sitting in the second row of the spectator gallery. He wore a dark charcoal suit, a dark grey silk tie, and held a small wooden box in his lap.
Beside him sat Marco, Nico, Alessandro, and Matteo.
All four boys were wearing navy blazers, grey wool trousers, and small leather shoes that looked impeccably polished. Marco had his hair combed to the side; Nico was holding a small paper airplane behind his back; Alessandro was trying to untie his tie; and Matteo was holding Lucia’s small hand in his.
Lucia was wearing a bright yellow dress with white lace along the collar, sitting on Matteo’s lap, happily chewing on a cinnamon stick.
I walked down the aisle toward them.
"We won?" Marco asked, leaning over the wooden railing.
"We won," I said, my voice thick with tears I refused to let fall.
Marco grinned, reaching into his blazer pocket and pulling out a small red ribbon he’d stolen from the court clerk’s desk. "Victory," he whispered, mimicking his war cry from the kitchen two weeks ago.
"Victory," I agreed, smiling through the wetness in my eyes.
Victor stood up. He handed the small wooden box to me.
"What's this?" I asked, looking down at the polished mahogany lid.
"Your father's restaurant deed," Victor said softly. "The city cleared the title this morning. Rinaldi Construction starts the renovation on Monday. It will be open by spring."
I looked up into his dark grey eyes. The scar above his brow looked softer in the bright afternoon sunlight streaming through the high courtroom windows.
"I can't accept this, Victor," I whispered. "It's too much."
"It's not a gift, Serena," he said, taking a step closer until his chest was inches from mine. "It's an investment. The Rinaldi firm takes ten percent of the catering contracts for our corporate events."
A dark, beautiful smirk touched the corner of his lips.
"And," he added, his voice dropping into that quiet, intimate register that made my heart race, "the chef has to make garlic bread from scratch for my sons every Sunday night."
"Deal," I said, my hand reaching out to touch the lapel of his suit coat.
Matteo suddenly tugged on the hem of my coat.
I looked down.
The four-year-old boy held up a small, hand-drawn piece of paper. It showed six small figures standing in front of a giant house with a tall stone archway. One of them had wild curly hair; four of them were wearing red pajamas; and one was holding a giant chef’s knife that looked three times her size.
Beneath the drawing, in Marco’s shaky eight-year-old handwriting, were four words:
Serena stays with us.
May you like
I dropped to my knees on the cold marble floor of the courtroom, pulled Matteo, Lucia, Marco, Nico, and Alessandro into my arms, and buried my face in the soft wool of their shoulders.
Behind us, Victor Rinaldi stood like a stone wall against the world, his hand coming down to rest gently over my shoulder, protecting the six people who had turned his cold limestone house into a home.
