The Mafia Heir Gave My Wedding To My Sister Chapter 09
I stood to leave, but my mother’s call came through.
“Emma, what is wrong with you? Not answering your phone—are you really going to cut ties with this family?”
My father grabbed the phone and roared, “We raised you all these years, and this is how you repay us? If you leave, don’t ever come back!”
Marco chimed in from the background. “Is this really necessary? All this drama over something so small—making everyone miserable?”
I sent them a document, cutting Marco off mid-sentence. “Show Mom and Dad. That’s the minimum living stipend I’m willing to give you.”
“From now on, I’ll send you eight hundred dollars a month.”
“Not a cent more.”
I spoke slowly, deliberately. “This is the price of your favoritism.”
“From here on out—illness, hospitalization, anything—don’t notify me.”
“This eight hundred dollars is the last obligation I owe you.”
“Until the day you die.”
On the other end, I heard my father overturn a table and my mother’s muffled sobbing.
I didn’t engage. I hung up.
Then I looked at Adrian. “Is there anything else?”
Adrian’s lips moved. “Emma, do you really have to be this cold?”
“Have you forgotten our seven years?”
I laughed. “Adrian, I’m not the one who forgot those seven years.”
“And I’m not the one who betrayed them.”
The food arrived.
I took a bite. “Remember this place? We used to come here all the time.”
I held his gaze. “But the taste has changed.”
“I used to love it here.”
“Now it’s different. So I don’t want it anymore.”
I stood and headed for the door.
Adrian’s eyes turned red. He grabbed the edge of my sleeve, looking up at me with something close to humility. “Emma, give me one more chance.”
This man—always so cold, so controlled—was on the verge of tears in a crowded restaurant.
“My bank accounts, my houses—I’ll put your name on all of them.”
“You don’t like your sister? Fine. We’ll never set foot in the Moretti house again.”
“Emma, I can’t lose you.”
I peeled his fingers off my sleeve, one by one.
“But every single choice you made was pushing me out the door.”
Adrian left like a man who’d lost his soul.
Two years later, my mother called.
Her voice was cautious, careful. “Emma, Mommy misses you. Will you come home for the holidays?”
I paused. “I don’t have the money.”
My mother panicked immediately. “Mommy doesn’t want your money. I just miss you.”
In the background, I heard my father coughing, low and rough.
I smiled.
Sure enough, my mother’s voice cracked. “Your father fell down the stairs and broke his leg. He’s been burning with fever, delirious—keeps calling your name.”
“Could you please come back…”
“I don’t have the time,” I said.
Her voice dropped even lower. “Then could you send a little more? Eight hundred a month really isn’t enough.”
“Your brother got into a fight while doing deliveries the other day. He’s still in custody.”
She let a small sob slip out, as if making sure I could hear it. “Emma, Mommy really has no other option.”
“And your sister’s been out of it again—all she does is cry.”
My tone was perfectly even. “Mom, favoritism comes with consequences.”
“I’ve done the math. From childhood to adulthood, you spent no more than a hundred thousand dollars on me.”
“Think of raising me as an investment.”
“Don’t worry—I won’t let you take a loss.”
“If you die before I’ve paid back the full hundred thousand, I’ll make sure you get a decent burial plot.”
I hung up.