30. Choosing Each Other
CHOOSING EACH OTHER
LUCA
Iwas still lowering into my chair when the first objection came.
"Putting Riley Brooks in charge does not make the numbers any less risky."
Monday morning light cut through the boardroom windows, too bright for the tension gathered around the glass table. Victor's usual chair sat empty at the far end: no folder, no coffee, no nameplate.
Nothing left of him in the room except the loyalties he had bought.
Gerald Pike closed the financial packet Riley had prepared. He had backed Victor through nearly every vote, usually with Evelyn Shaw beside him. This morning, both looked ready to oppose anything with my fingerprints on it.
Riley remained standing beside the presentation screen.
"The projections account for the risk," she said. "Page fourteen separates confirmed revenue from anticipated bookings."
Evelyn flipped to it. "You have experience coordinating events. You have never directed hospitality operations across a resort."
"No," Riley said. "Which is why the proposal includes department leads, outside consultation from Bianca Rhodes, and quarterly performance reviews. I'm not asking you to pretend I know everything. I'm showing you the structure that means no one person has to."
I leaned back and let her answer.
That might have been the hardest thing I did all morning.
Every instinct I had told me to step between her and anyone questioning whether she belonged. But Riley did not need me throwing punches with words. She needed me to stand back and let her own the room.
She advanced the slide.
The new event and hospitality division appeared first: weddings, corporate retreats, private launches, and community programming supported by contracts already under negotiation.
Then came the family model. Quiet check-in options. Visual schedules. Sensory kits. Staff training. Designated low-stimulation spaces that allowed families like mine to travel without apologizing for what they needed.
Gerald tapped his pen. "And the clinic partnership?"
"Partially sponsor-funded," Riley said. "It connects local families with services while creating year-round programming and measurable community impact."
"Goodwill does not guarantee occupancy."
"No," I said. "But confirmed bookings do."
I slid the signed letters of intent across the table.
The silence shifted as the investors read.
Evelyn looked from the contracts to Riley. "You secured these before the funding vote?"
"I secured interest," Riley replied. "They become contracts once we prove this board can support a future instead of protecting the past."
Gerald's mouth tightened.
Then he exhaled and opened his packet again.
"Quarterly review," he said. "Strict reporting."
Riley nodded. "Agreed."
Gerald studied her for another moment, as if searching for the uncertainty he had expected to find. Whatever he saw made him look away first.
One vote followed another.
When Evelyn finally raised her hand, the decision became unanimous.
Funding restored.
Riley's fingers brushed mine beneath the table.
Victor's chair remained empty.
For the first time, it looked that way because he no longer mattered.
By that evening, the first violin note had barely cut through the ballroom before one of the chandeliers flickered.
I looked up. Riley didn't.
"Table seven needs the revised place cards, the west terrace doors stay closed until the photographer finishes, and somebody please tell the lighting tech that 'moody' does not mean 'funeral.'"
Three staff members scattered in different directions.
I stayed near the ballroom entrance, watching her move through the final ten minutes before opening like she had built the room herself. Maybe she had. The chandeliers, the marble floors, and the Santoro name embossed above the stage belonged to my family.
But the pulse of the night belonged to Riley.
She crossed between tables in a fitted, dark green dress, headset tucked behind one ear, one hand smoothing a linen runner while the other redirected a florist carrying the wrong arrangement. She never raised her voice. She did not have to. People listened.
Beyond the glass doors, camera flashes sparked along the arrival path.
The investors filtered through the lobby beside donors and local officials, no clipboards in sight this time.
Gerald Pike shook hands with the head of guest services.
Evelyn Shaw paused beside the family-hospitality display while Riley's team explained the quiet check-in program.
A few hours earlier, they had questioned whether she belonged in the room.
Now they were introducing her plan as part of the resort's future. The change should have satisfied me. Instead, I kept waiting for the floor to shift beneath us.
Donny appeared beside me, straightening his cuffs. "You planning to help, or just stand here making inappropriate eyes at your event and hospitality director?"
"She has everything handled."
"That has never stopped you from interfering. Or staring."
Riley glanced across the room and caught me watching. Her expression softened for half a second before she tapped her headset.
"Luca, the donors from Coral Bridge arrived early."
"I'll handle them."
"And the reporter from Vista wants a comment."
"About the relaunch?"
"About Victor."
My jaw tightened.
Even gone, the bastard still knew how to force himself into a room.
Riley came closer, lowering her voice. "You don't have to answer."
"No. But I'm not letting him own the story."
Her gaze held mine. "Then tell them what comes next."
I touched two fingers to the inside of her wrist, hidden between our bodies.
"The only story worth telling."
The ballroom doors opened behind me.
Music swelled. Conversation rushed in. So did the cameras, the donors, and every person who had come to see whether Santoro Resorts could become something better than it had been before.
Riley drew one breath, squared her shoulders, and stepped forward.
This time, nobody in the room doubted she belonged there.
I followed.
Applause rose near the ballroom entrance before I understood why.
Ava stood just inside the doorway, one hand wrapped around Bianca's, the other holding a folded piece of paper against her chest. Her silver dolphin headphones covered her ears, muting the swell of strings and voices. Riley saw her first.
"There you are," she said, crossing the floor.
Ava looked past her at me. Serious. Determined.
I crouched when she reached us. "You okay, piccola?"
She nodded, then held out the note.
The paper had been folded into quarters and decorated with blue marker waves. Inside, in Ava's block letters, were five words.
YOU DID NOT GIVE UP.
For a second, the room blurred around the edges.
I read it again because I needed the letters to settle somewhere permanent.
"You wrote this?"
Another nod. "For your speech."
My throat tightened. "That's the whole speech?"
"No." Her mouth twitched. "You have to say other things too."
Riley laughed beside me, and the sound loosened something in my chest.
Across the room, the emcee lifted his microphone. "Mr. Santoro, we're ready when you are."
Cameras angled toward us, restrained behind the press line Riley had insisted on. No one moved closer. No flashes went off near Ava. For once, people followed the rules because she had made them understand the rules mattered.
I looked at my daughter. "Want to help me welcome everyone?"
Ava's gaze jumped to the stage, then to the crowd. Her fingers tightened around the edge of the note.
"You don't have to," Riley said. "You can stay right here with me."
Ava thought about it. "Will they clap?"
"Probably," I said. "But I can tell them to wait."
She studied my face, deciding whether I could keep that promise. Then she slipped her hand into mine. We walked onto the stage together.
The room quieted without being asked. Under the chandelier light, Ava looked impossibly small and braver than every fighter I had ever known.
I lowered the microphone for her. She glanced at me once. I nodded.
"Welcome to my dad's hotel," she said. "It is for families too now."
A breath moved through the room, followed by a few muffled laughs and something softer. Ava lifted one hand.
"Please clap quietly."
The applause came warm, palms meeting without thunder.
Ava smiled.
Behind the press line, phones rose, but no one crowded her. No one shouted her name. They captured the moment the way Riley had demanded—with distance, respect, and care.
I bent and kissed the top of Ava's headphones. When I straightened, she pressed the note into my palm.
"Now say the other things," she whispered.
I faced the crowd with her words resting against my skin. Ava stayed beside me, her hand tucked into mine as I looked over the ballroom.
For years, crowds had known what they wanted from me before I opened my mouth. Violence. Spectacle. A headline big enough to justify the price of admission.
Tonight, they waited for something else.
I unfolded Ava's note against the podium.
"She gave me the short version," I said. "Apparently I'm responsible for the rest."
A ripple of laughter moved through the room. Ava leaned closer to the microphone.
"He talks a lot."
That earned more.
I looked toward Riley. She stood near the stage steps, one hand pressed to her headset, the other resting against her stomach like she could hold herself steady there. Bianca stood beside her, already smiling through wet eyes.
"This resort survived because a lot of people refused to let one bad season become the whole story," I said. "Our staff stayed. Our partners took calls they had every reason to ignore. Our community reminded us that hospitality means more than polished floors and full rooms."
I paused.
"And Riley Brooks walked into this place with plans nobody asked for, standards nobody could talk her out of, and enough nerve to tell me exactly what I was doing wrong."
Riley's mouth parted.
"She built the relaunch. She designed the family model. She created an event division strong enough to carry this resort long after my name stops being useful."