Chapter 20 - The Family We Choose
Three weeks later, the smell of fresh yeast and roasted garlic drifted through the brand-new, double-paned windows of the *Sullivan Community Kitchen & Medical Center* on Broad Street.
The grand opening had taken place at noon.
The line of people stretched around the block—hundreds of homeless men, struggling single mothers, and veterans in thin coats, waiting in the biting January cold. But unlike the municipal shelters, nobody was turned away.
Inside, the dining room was warm, bright, and decorated with fresh flowers.
Working behind the steam tables were six massive, broad-shouldered men dressed in matching white chef coats and paper aprons.
Bruno—walking with a slight limp, his leg fully healed—was dishing out massive ladles of thick, hearty beef stew with a broad, beaming grin. Dante was carrying forty-pound trays of fresh-baked sourdough bread from the commercial ovens, while Marco was pouring hot chocolate into mugs for a dozen laughing children.
Two Philadelphia police cruisers had pulled up across the street an hour earlier, their officers watching the scene with utterly bewildered expressions. They knew Bruno. They knew Dante. They knew these were top enforcers for the Duca crime syndicate—and now they were gently handing out hot rolls and apple sauce to homeless grandmothers.
“Eat up, sir,” Bruno’s deep rumble echoed across the counter as he handed a steaming bowl to an old man in a threadbare coat. “Ma made the broth from roasted marrow bones. If you don't finish every drop, I’m coming over there to check your bowl.”
The old man laughed, clutching the warm bowl with tears in his eyes.
In the back corner of the dining room, sitting at a quiet corner table near the windows, sat Walter Briggs. He was wearing a sharp tweed jacket, reading the afternoon newspaper, a cup of dark roast coffee steaming beside him. He looked ten years younger, his chest clear, his eyes sparkling with quiet peace.
I stood at the kitchen pass, wiping down the stainless surface with a clean cloth, watching my family work.
A pair of strong, familiar arms wrapped gently around my waist from behind.
Roman Duca rested his chin on my shoulder, looking out at the crowded, noisy, joyful dining hall. He was wearing an unbuttoned overcoat, his dark hair slightly ruffled by the winter wind outside, looking relaxed in a way I had never seen before.
“How does it look, Miss Sullivan?” Roman murmured into my ear, his breath warm against my skin.
“It looks like a good start, Mr. Duca,” I replied, leaning back against his chest, placing my hand over his on my waist. The heavy gold-and-emerald ring he had given me in the conservatory caught the bright afternoon light.
“Vincent just called from New York,” Roman said quietly, his voice carrying a subtle, dangerous edge of anticipation. “Don Falcone wants to host the spring commission summit. He’s insisting on holding it here, in the private hall upstairs. He says he won't negotiate a single treaty unless you’re the one cooking the dinner.”
I turned around in his arms, looping my apron strings through my fingers, looking up into his dark, handsome face with a sly, challenging smile.
“Falcone wants my cooking?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.
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“He offered fifty thousand dollars just for your lasagna recipe,” Roman chuckled.
“Tell him the recipe isn't for sale,” I said, reaching up to adjust the lapel of his coat. “And tell him that if his capos bring weapons into my dining room, they’ll be washing dishes alongside Bruno