Chapter 8 - MATTEO SAT AT MY FATHER’S OLD TABLE AND LIKED HOW POWER FELT
Matteo lied about where he was going.
That hurt more than the dinner.
He said—
“Ava’s birthday thing.”
Ava was twenty-three and lived in Wisconsin.
Apparently I had become too trusting.
Elena noticed immediately.
“His shoes.”
“What?”
“He wore dress shoes.”
“So?”
“He hates dress shoes.”
Fair.
We did not track him.
That was deliberate.
He had location sharing for safety.
Not surveillance.
There is a difference until fear tests you.
At eleven-thirty, he was not home.
I looked at my phone.
Could check.
Elena watched.
“Don’t.”
“He’s late.”
“Text.”
I did.
WHERE ARE YOU?
Three minutes.
DINNER.
WITH WHO?
No answer.
My chest tightened.
Then Natalie called.
“Luca.”
Wrong time.
“What?”
“Did you know Matteo is at the Lakeshore Club?”
Everything inside me stopped.
The Lakeshore Club.
Private.
Old Chicago money.
More importantly—
my father’s table.
Vittorio Moretti used to hold Sunday meetings there.
“What?”
“Two directors saw him arrive with Carlo Bianchi.”
My jaw tightened.
Carlo.
Seventy-one.
Moretti Holdings director.
My father’s former advisor.
Had survived every reform by becoming just compliant enough.
Apparently he had become nostalgic.
I stood.
Elena blocked the door.
“No.”
“He is with Bianchi.”
“Yes.”
“At my father’s club.”
“Yes.”
“I’m going.”
“You show up angry, you prove every story they’re telling him.”
I froze.
“What story?”
“That you weakened Moretti.”
“That Matteo could restore it.”
Cold moved through me.
“How do you know?”
“Because it’s obvious.”
I hated marriage.
She was right too frequently.
“Then?”
“Wait.”
“I’m terrible at that.”
“Established.”
Matteo came home at 12:18.
Walked into the kitchen.
Stopped when he saw us.
No shouting.
Good.
I asked—
“How was Ava’s birthday?”
His face changed.
There.
“I—”
“Don’t.”
He looked down.
“Okay.”
“Who?”
“Carlo.”
“Who else?”
“Three directors.”
“Names.”
He gave them.
All older.
All from legacy industries.
“What did they want?”
Matteo’s jaw tightened.
“To talk.”
“About?”
“My future.”
“Did you ask them?”
“No.”
“Why go?”
Silence.
There.
“Matteo.”
He looked at me.
“Because I wanted to.”
Honest.
Good.
“What did it feel like?”
He frowned.
“What?”
“Sitting at Vittorio Moretti’s table.”
His expression changed.
He knew.
“Powerful.”
There.
Not ashamed.
“I liked it.”
My chest tightened.
Elena stayed quiet.
Matteo continued—
“They listen when I talk.”
“Because of your ideas?”
He flinched.
Good question.
“I had ideas.”
“Not what I asked.”
He looked angry.
“I’m not stupid.”
“I didn’t say—”
“They think I could run things.”
“Of course.”
“Why ‘of course’?”
“Because your last name is Moretti.”
His face hardened.
“You don’t think I could?”
There.
The trap.
If I said no, I dismissed him.
If yes, legacy claims victory.
“I don’t know.”
He laughed bitterly.
“Great.”
“You’ve never worked full-time.”
“You’re seventeen.”
“You don’t know if you can run a regional grocery store.”
“Much less Moretti Holdings.”
He stood straighter.
“You did.”
“At twenty-three.”
“And I was dangerously unqualified.”
Silence.
That surprised him.
“My father trained me to command.”
“Not lead.”
“I spent fifteen years learning the difference.”
Matteo looked away.
“They said you’re giving away family control.”
“Yes.”
“They said Mom protected the family.”
My jaw tightened.
“Which mom?”
“Sofia.”
Anger arrived.
Clean.
“Explain.”
“They said she uncovered corruption because she cared what happened to Moretti.”
“No.”
My voice turned cold.
“She uncovered corruption because people were stealing through charitable medical systems.”
“She did not die protecting a family corporation.”
Matteo looked uncomfortable.
“They said she wanted me safe because I was heir.”
“No.”
“How do you know?”
I stopped.
He had a right to challenge.
I answered carefully.
“Every letter she left talked about you as her son.”
“Not successor.”
“Not heir.”
“Son.”
Matteo looked down.
“They showed me old photos.”
“Of?”
“My grandfather.”
“You.”
“Mom.”
“Board dinners.”
He swallowed.
“It looked…”
“What?”
“Like I belonged.”
There.
That hurt.
Because identity is powerful.
Matteo had grown up in a family apologizing for what Moretti meant.
Maybe we had made him feel like his own name was something to manage.
Carlo offered pride.
History.
Belonging.
Dangerous gifts.
Elena spoke.
“You do belong.”
Matteo looked at her.
“To the family.”
She continued.
“That does not mean the family business owns you.”
He sat.
“I don’t know what I want.”
“Good.”
I said.
He stared.
“Good?”
“You’re seventeen.”
“You are supposed to not know.”
Carlo had apparently told him uncertainty showed weakness.
I could see it.
“What else did they say?”
Matteo hesitated.
“They think the reforms went too far.”
There.
“Which reforms?”
“Employee board seat.”
“Compliance oversight.”
“Family voting changes.”
“They said competitors don’t respect Moretti now.”
I almost laughed.
“Do you?”
“What?”
“Respect me?”
He froze.
“Dad.”
“Not fear.”
“Respect.”
He looked at me for a long time.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
His eyes shifted.
“Because…”
Hard question.
“Because you listened to Mom.”
“Sofia.”
“Yes.”
“Because you didn’t kill Vittorio.”
“Because you let Elena argue.”
She smiled.
“Because you changed things when it cost you.”
My chest tightened.
“Do those sound like things Carlo wants reversed?”
Matteo did not answer.
That was enough.
Then—
“I still want to know the company.”
Fair.
“Then learn it.”
His eyes lifted.
“Really?”
“Intern.”
He looked offended.
“Intern?”
“Yes.”
“Unpaid?”
“Illegal in some contexts.”
Elena laughed.
“Paid market rate.”
I continued.
“No executive floor.”
“No private office.”
“No reporting to me.”
“Where?”
“Operations.”
“Warehouse.”
His face dropped.
Good.
“Six weeks summer.”
“Then accounting.”
“Then hotel.”
“You want leadership?”
“Learn what people do.”
Matteo considered.
“What if I hate it?”
“Then you learned something valuable.”
He nodded slowly.
“Okay.”
Carlo Bianchi was not happy.
Even better.
Matteo spent the summer at a Moretti distribution center outside Joliet.
First day, he wore loafers.
The supervisor sent him home for steel-toe boots.
He called me furious.
I laughed for five minutes.
Then he learned.
Inventory systems.
Forklifts.
Loading delays.
Night shifts.
How one executive decision about scheduling could ruin a mother’s childcare arrangement.
How temperature controls mattered.
How warehouse bathrooms mattered.
How safety rules people in boardrooms call expensive become the difference between walking home and going to an emergency room.
At the end, he told me—
“I don’t want to run a warehouse.”
“Good.”
“I didn’t say never.”
“Also good.”
Then he asked—
“Why didn’t you make me do this earlier?”
“You were twelve.”
“Fair.”
Carlo kept contacting him.
Not secretly anymore.
Matteo told me.
Progress.
Then a warehouse supervisor handed Matteo something one afternoon.
A stack of payroll records.
“Your board friends want to cut labor costs.”
The supervisor said.
Matteo frowned.
“What board friends?”
“Bianchi.”
The proposed plan moved hundreds of workers from employee status into contractor arrangements through a staffing affiliate.
Lower benefits.
Less stability.
Higher margins.
The board faction calling itself traditional Moretti strength was not trying to restore mafia violence.
They were doing something more modern.
More respectable.
Making ordinary workers pay for higher profits.
Matteo came home furious.
“Did you know?”
“No.”
“You’re chairman.”
“Yes.”
“How do you not know?”
“Because companies are large.”
“Not excuse.”
“No.”
He threw the proposal on my desk.
I read.
Then looked at him.
“What do you want to do?”
He stopped.
Old me would have decided.
New me asked.
Matteo smiled slowly.
“I want to ruin Carlo’s dinner.”
I almost smiled.
“Legally.”
May you like
“Unfortunately.”
We had found our next battle.
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