My mother Valentina Capuano glides toward me, looking elegant in her navy satin gown.
“Yes, Mother?” I shovel pasta into my mouth. I know she’s going to ask me for something, but I need food.
Mother adjusts the jewel hairpiece fastened into her chignon. “It’s time for our guest of honor to make a toast, don’t you think?” She places a hand on my shoulder and kisses my cheek. I get a whiff of her jasmine perfume.
“I’m getting to it,” I reply through bites of pasta. “I need to eat something, I’m starving.”
“Oh, honey, it would be much more elegant if you would just sit at one of the tables instead of standing here shoveling food in your mouth.”
“I know, I know.”
“Ever since you were a baby, you loved to eat. Your father would have never approved of this behavior.”
“He would be standing here with me eating and you know it.”
Mother chuckles, “God, I miss him.”
“Me too.”
She reaches over and takes a piece of bruschetta off my plate and eats it. We stand in silence, watching the people in the ballroom. The mention of father triggers unspoken grief and sadness between us. He had died way too young and way too soon. People in our profession would think he got iced, but it was a heart attack that did him in.
“I’ll do the toast in a few minutes.” I take another bite of pasta.
My mother clears her throat. “Keep an eye on that man near Ginevra. He seems too smug for his own good.”
“Why is he even here?”
“I’m afraid that’s my doing. When Madeline asked me if he could attend, I didn’t think anything of it.” She leans closer. “I thought he was a nerd. I didn’t know he would be a cocky frat boy.”
“I’m on it. I got Bruno doing a background check as we speak.”
Her lips curve into a pleased smirk. “That’s my girl.” She pats me on the arm. Then she takes the plate out of my hand. “I think in addition to your toast it would be a good time to sing happy birthday. I’m sure everyone will want cake.”
At that moment, Matteo’s voice booms through the microphone. “Cipriani, please come to the cake table now.”
Smiling, I cross the room and stand beside him. Next to us is a table with an elegant three-tier red velvet masterpiece filled with flowers and elegant designs. It was handcrafted by our pastry chef.
“I think it’s time we all sing happy birthday to our queen.” Matteo places his arm around my shoulders. “Altogether…one…two…three.”
The crowd erupts into a chorus of Happy Birthday in a mixture of Italian and American.
Once everyone has finished the last verse, Matteo hands me the microphone. Nonna places a glass of champagne in my hand, then they walk off.
The music fades and the chatter dies.
Raising the microphone to my lips, I clear my throat.
“Buonasera, famiglia,” I begin.
All eyes lock on me.
“Thank you for coming tonight.”
Murmurs of excitement billow through the crowd as they move closer to where I stand.
Flashes from phone cameras light the room. Smiling faces stare back at me as I sweep my gaze over the crowd.
I raise the glass of champagne and face the people who have helped build this empire with me.
