I Sold His Gifts To Leave My Mafia Husband Chapter 15
Another six months passed.
Persimmon & Daisy made the city’s official food guide.
I started taking on two apprentices, both fresh out of culinary school. They learned quickly and were willing to get up early every morning.
Grandma was still the same.
On good days, she could feed herself. On bad days, she recognized no one.
But one thing had changed.
Every time I placed a slice of persimmon cake in front of her, she smiled.
She no longer said my name.
But she would say, “It’s good.”
To me, that was enough.
One weekend afternoon, I sat in the little yard with Grandma, letting her enjoy the sun.
Rachel sent me a message.
“The Vitale family’s internal review is over. Matteo has been permanently stripped of his deputy position and has lost his succession rights. Several district heads have refused to take his orders. All he has left now are his personal assets.”
Then another message came through:
“He’s funding a care facility in a remote area, taking in elderly people whose Family protection was withdrawn. He hasn’t gone back to the docks.”
I looked at the screen and paused for a few seconds.
Then I closed the chat.
I didn’t reply.
I didn’t hate Matteo anymore.
My time belonged to Grandma, to the rising dough, and to the two girls waiting for me to teach them how to whip cream—not to him.
Grandma stirred in her lounge chair and touched the blanket over her legs.
“Daisy?”
I set my phone down and took her hand.
“I’m here.”
She looked at me, her eyes briefly clear.
Just for a moment.
“Daisy,” she asked, “are the persimmons sweet today?”
I smiled.
“Very sweet.”
She nodded and closed her eyes again.
The sunlight in the yard was lovely.
The bread in the oven was rising, its scent drifting out the window and down the street.
A child just out of school leaned over the gate and called, “Miss Daisy, do you have any persimmon cake today?”
“I do.”
I got to my feet and brushed the flour from my apron.
“Wait one second. I’ll cut you a slice right now.”
I went back into the kitchen and opened the oven.
Steam rose, thick with the smell of persimmons and butter.
This was my life.
It didn’t belong to the Vitale family. It didn’t need a ring, and it didn’t need any man’s signature for approval.
Every inch of it was something I had earned with my own two hands.