Chapter 11 – [THE NAME ON THE GARAGE DOOR]

The warm Florida breeze was a myth Arthur liked to talk about, but standing in the cool autumn air of our city, I knew I would never want to be anywhere else.

Six months had passed since the night the Bellini and Moretti empires burned to the ground. The news cycle had long since moved on from the scandalous arrests, the federal indictments, and the shocking donation of the Moretti mansion to the city’s orphans.

I stood on the sidewalk at the edge of town, holding two steaming cups of coffee.

In front of me was a large, brick building with a freshly paved driveway. The bay doors were rolled up, revealing the pristine, well-lit interior of a classic auto restoration shop.

Inside, standing over the engine block of a beautiful, cherry-red 1969 Chevy Impala, was Luca.

He was wearing dark jeans and a simple white t-shirt, completely smeared with motor oil and grease. He had a wrench in his hand, a smudge of dirt on his forehead, and he was whistling an old jazz tune.

He looked nothing like a mafia boss. He looked like a man who had finally found his soul.

I walked into the garage, the smell of fresh oil and rubber filling my senses. It was the exact smell of my childhood. The exact smell of my father.

“You’re going to strip that bolt if you torque it any harder, grease monkey,” I teased, setting a coffee cup on the workbench beside him.

Luca looked up, wiping his forehead with the back of his wrist and leaving another streak of oil. He grinned, an expression that still caught me completely off guard with its genuine warmth.

“I was wondering when the boss was going to show up to critique my work,” Luca laughed, taking the coffee. “Thanks, Liv. I needed this.”

“I’m the CFO, not the boss,” I corrected, tapping the clipboard under my arm. “And speaking of business, I just got off the phone with the vintage parts supplier in Chicago. They tracked down the original carburetor for the Mustang build.”

“You’re a miracle worker,” Luca smiled, taking a sip of his coffee.

I looked around the shop. It was thriving. Luca’s meticulous attention to detail and his obsession with doing things the right, honest way had earned us a massive backlog of wealthy clients wanting their classic cars restored. We were booked out for the next two years.

There were no guns. No secrets. No blood money.

Just hard work and clean ledgers.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” Luca said, setting his coffee down and wiping his hands on a rag. He walked over to his toolbox and pulled out a small, padded envelope. “This came in the mail today. From Florida.”

I smiled, taking the envelope. Arthur sent us a postcard every month. He was living in a little house near the beach, spending his days fishing and finally resting his bad knee. He had sent pictures of himself wearing ridiculous Hawaiian shirts, a far cry from his chauffeur’s uniform.

I tore open the envelope.

Inside wasn’t a postcard. It was a small, velvet box.

I frowned, looking up at Luca. He was watching me intently, his hands resting on his hips, a nervous energy vibrating in his posture.

I opened the box.

Resting on the velvet was a beautiful, vintage silver ring. But it wasn’t a diamond engagement ring. It was a custom-made band, intricately designed to look like a tiny, braided silver wrench wrapping around the finger.

I gasped, my hand flying to my mouth.

“Luca,” I whispered, looking up at him. “What is this?”

Luca took a step closer. The tall, imposing man who had once terrified thirty dinner guests with a single look was suddenly shifting on his feet like a nervous teenager.

“Arthur didn’t send that, Olivia,” Luca said softly. “I put it in the envelope. I knew you wouldn’t open it if I just handed it to you in the shop.”

My heart began to hammer against my ribs.

“I don’t know how to do the traditional thing,” Luca continued, stepping into my space, his dark eyes locking onto mine with a fierce, unwavering devotion. “I don’t have a family estate to offer you anymore. I don’t have a fortune. All I have is grease on my hands, a two-year lease on this garage, and a heart that hasn’t stopped beating for you since the night you threw a mafia boss down a flight of stairs to save my life.”

Tears spilled over my eyelashes, blurring my vision.

“I don’t want a boss, Olivia,” Luca whispered, reaching out to gently wipe a tear from my cheek with his clean thumb. “And I don’t want a business partner anymore. I want a wife.”

I looked at the silver wrench ring. It was the most perfect, thoughtful, profoundly us thing I had ever seen.

I didn’t say yes.

I just grabbed the collar of his oil-stained white t-shirt and pulled him down into a kiss.

It tasted like coffee and tasted like home. Luca wrapped his strong arms around my waist, lifting me off the ground, spinning me right there in the middle of the garage floor while we both laughed into the kiss.

When he finally set me down, he slid the silver ring onto my finger. It fit perfectly.

“Come here,” Luca smiled, taking my hand. “I want to show you something.”

He led me outside to the front of the building.

Parked out front was the old 1968 Mustang from the carriage house. Luca had spent the last six months painstakingly restoring it, scrubbing the smoke and ash away, bringing it back to life. It gleamed perfectly in the sunlight.

But Luca didn’t point at the car. He pointed up at the massive wooden sign hanging above the open bay doors of the garage.

It had been installed that morning, covered by a tarp, but Luca had pulled the tarp down.

I read the painted letters, and a fresh wave of tears hit me so hard my knees went weak.

The sign didn’t say Moretti Auto.

It said in bold, beautiful, vintage lettering:

Luca wrapped his arm around my shoulder, pulling me tight against his side.

“Your father’s name is back in the light, Liv,” Luca whispered, kissing the top of my head. “Right where it belongs. Right next to mine.”

I leaned into him, resting my head against his chest, listening to the steady, strong beat of his heart.

We had survived the fire. We had broken the curses of our fathers. And as the morning sun warmed the brick of our very own shop, I knew we were finally ready to build something that would last forever.