Chapter 11 - The Day the DeLuca Name Went on Trial
Voss's conviction should have ended the public part.
It didn't.
The evidence triggered civil lawsuits against Hawthorne’s corporate shell companies.
Those companies led back to DeLuca holdings.
Roman’s board panicked.
Then his uncle Victor filed a petition seeking to remove Roman as chairman.
Victor was Salvatore’s younger brother.
Sixty-two.
White-haired.
Old-school.
The kind of man who called every woman under forty “sweetheart” and wondered why they hated him.
His argument was simple.
Roman had exposed internal records.
Damaged company value.
Cooperated with prosecutors.
Authorized restitution without requiring nondisclosure agreements.
In Victor's words, Roman had “placed emotion above legacy.”
Roman showed me the letter.
I laughed.
“What?”
“Your family uses ‘legacy’ the way normal people use duct tape.”
He smiled tiredly.
Victor also wanted Sophie recognized formally within the DeLuca family trust.
My laughter stopped.
“No.”
“I already told him no.”
“Can he force it?”
“Not without a legal proceeding.”
“He'll file one.”
“Probably.”
I felt old panic returning.
Roman saw it.
“Mara.”
“No.”
“He cannot take her.”
“That's what everyone says until a judge decides something stupid.”
“I won't let—”
“Don't say it.”
He stopped.
“You don't get to promise control over courts.”
“No.”
“Tell me facts.”
Roman nodded.
“Sophie is legally your child. Your adoption is valid. Biological paternity does not erase it.”
“Fact.”
“I have established paternity but have not filed for independent custodial rights beyond our voluntary agreement.”
“Fact.”
“Victor has no parental standing.”
“Fact.”
I breathed.
Better.
Roman had learned.
Victor did file.
The judge dismissed most of it immediately.
But the trust issue remained.
Because Salvatore’s estate documents defined biological descendants as beneficiaries whether publicly acknowledged or not.
Sophie potentially owned shares.
I hated that.
Roman asked, “Do you want me to renounce them for her?”
“Can you?”
“No.”
“Then why ask?”
“I could petition to restructure the trust.”
“Would that remove something that legally belongs to her?”
“Yes.”
I stared at him.
“I don't want to make that choice for her.”
Neither did he.
So Rachel designed a solution.
Sophie's beneficial interest remained intact.
No control rights exercised before adulthood.
No access by DeLuca relatives.
Independent trustee selected by me and approved by court.
No public use of her image or name for corporate purposes.
When Sophie turned eighteen, she could accept, restructure, donate, sell, or reject what law permitted.
Choice preserved.
I loved that.
Victor did not.
At the board hearing, he told Roman:
“A four-year-old cannot dictate the future of this family.”
Roman answered:
“She isn't.”
Victor looked confused.
“That's the point.”
Roman survived the removal vote.
Barely.
Three board members resigned.
Victor sold part of his holdings.
Stock dropped.
Then stabilized.
Life continued.
It usually does.
Months passed.
Sophie turned five.
We held her birthday at the children’s museum.
No chandeliers.
No champagne.
Twenty-two screaming children.
Pizza.
A magician who lost control of a rabbit.
Roman arrived carrying exactly one gift.
A microscope.
I stared at him.
“She asked for it.”
Sophie screamed with joy.
Apparently she had.
Tall Roman had learned.
During cake, Sophie stood on a chair.
“I have an announcement!”
I nearly dropped a plate.
Roman looked at me.
“Trauma response?”
“Absolutely.”
Sophie raised both hands.
“I am five!”
Children cheered.
I laughed so hard I cried.
Later, after everyone left, Roman helped clean frosting from plastic tables.
A billionaire mafia boss wiping grape juice with paper towels should not have been attractive.
It was.
I resented this.
He caught me looking.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You're staring.”
“Your technique is bad.”
“I'm wiping a table.”
“Poorly.”
He moved closer.
Not too close.
“Mara.”
I knew the tone.
“No.”
“I haven't asked anything.”
“You were going to.”
He smiled.
“Yes.”
“What?”
“Dinner.”
“We have dinner with Sophie all the time.”
“Without Sophie.”
I stopped.
There it was.
A line.
Crossing from co-parenting into something else.
My body reacted before my brain.
Fear.
Not of Roman.
Of losing control.
I put down the paper towels.
“I can't.”
His expression changed, but he nodded.
“Okay.”
“That easy?”
“Should it be hard?”
“I don't know.”
“Mara.”
He leaned against the table.
“I want you to say yes only if yes feels safe.”
I swallowed.
“And if it never does?”
“Then we raise Sophie well.”
No punishment.
No withdrawal.
No coldness.
I hated how much that mattered.
Three weeks later, I called him.
“Dinner.”
A pause.
“What?”
“I’m saying yes.”
“Are you sure?”
“Don't ruin it.”
He laughed.
Our first date was terrible.
The restaurant lost our reservation.
A fire alarm went off.
Roman got recognized by a man who wanted a photograph.
I spilled wine.
We ended up eating cheeseburgers in his car.
It was perfect.
Not because it was romantic.
Because nothing about it felt predetermined.
I chose to go.
I chose to stay.
I chose to kiss him goodnight.
One kiss.
Then I went home.
No guards followed me.
No gifts appeared the next morning.
No pressure.
Just a text.
Thank you for last night.
I smiled.
Then deleted it.
Then regretted deleting it.
Then recovered it from recently deleted messages.
Healing is not elegant.
Months later, Serena was sentenced.
She received prison time followed by supervised release.
At sentencing, she apologized.
I believed maybe fifteen percent of it.
That was not my problem.
Victor eventually withdrew from active family business.
Evelyn entered witness protection for a period, then moved near her daughter.
The restitution trust helped seven women.
One still refused contact.
Her right.
Roman converted the old Hawthorne property into something I initially hated.
A women’s medical advocacy center.
I told him it felt like branding.
He agreed.
So he removed the DeLuca name.
The building became the Rebecca Lane Center for Informed Consent.
No family logo.
No Roman plaque.
That I accepted.
On opening day, Rebecca’s brother Noah came.
He stood beside me beneath the sign.
“She would have hated all the attention.”
“So would I.”
He laughed.
Then he looked at Sophie chasing bubbles on the lawn.
“My sister saved her.”
“Yes.”
“You saved her too.”
I shook my head.
“No.”
I watched Sophie.
“She saved herself by becoming impossible to ignore.”
Behind us, Roman called my name.
I turned.
And for the first time, the DeLuca name did not feel like a threat.
It was simply his.
May you like
The man was becoming something separate from the inheritance.
Maybe I was too.
