Chapter 11

Dinner that night was chaos in the best possible way.

There were no crystal champagne flutes or fifty silent, judging guests. It was just paper napkins, massive bowls of pasta, and loud, overlapping conversations. My mother told embarrassing stories about me as a child, and Michael roared with laughter, eager to absorb every piece of his sister’s life he had missed.

Luca sat beside me, his hand resting warmly on my thigh beneath the table. He didn’t say much, but the hard, guarded look that usually masked his face was completely gone. He looked at his brother, then at me, with a quiet, profound peace.

After dinner, while my mother and Michael were arguing about who was going to wash the dishes, Luca stood up and held his hand out to me.

“Walk with me,” he said softly.

I took his hand. He led me out of the dining room, through the quiet library, and out the French doors onto the massive stone balcony overlooking the estate.

The Chicago night air was crisp and cool. The stars were actually visible above the manicured gardens.

I leaned against the stone railing, looking out over the dark trees. Luca stood behind me, wrapping his coat around my shoulders to keep the chill away.

“Are you okay?” he asked, resting his chin on the top of my head.

“I’m perfect,” I smiled, leaning back against his chest. “But it feels like a dream. Two weeks ago, I was terrified I wouldn’t be able to pay the electric bill. Now… I’m wearing your mother’s gold bracelet and standing on your balcony.”

Luca gently turned me around so I was facing him.

The moonlight caught the sharp angles of his jaw, softening the tattoos on his neck.

“It’s not a dream, Emily,” Luca whispered, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “This is exactly where you were always supposed to be. My father knew it. And I know it.”

He reached into his jacket pocket.

For a second, my heart leaped into my throat, thinking he was pulling out a ring.

But instead, he pulled out a small, leather-bound book.

It was Antonio Moretti’s memoir. The final, published copy.

“Vittorio sent the first official pressing over this afternoon,” Luca said, handing the book to me. “Open it.”

I took the heavy book. I opened the cover, flipping past the title page to the dedication.

My breath caught in my throat.

The dedication had been changed.

It no longer just named Luca and Michael. Below Antonio’s original words, a new paragraph had been added in a different font. Luca’s font.

“And to Emily Carter. The woman who protected this family’s history, who carried my father’s secret with grace, and who finally taught me how to love without walls.”

Tears blurred my vision. I looked up at Luca.

“You changed the book?” I whispered.

“I updated it,” Luca smiled softly. “My father wrote the beginning of the story. But you’re the rest of it. You’re my future, Emily.”

I threw my arms around his neck, pulling him down, and kissed him with everything I had. Luca’s arms wrapped tightly around my waist, lifting me slightly off the ground, holding me as if he would never let me go.

Inside the house, I could hear my mother laughing, and Michael’s deep voice answering her. The ghosts of the past—Dominic, the fire, the blackmail, the years of lies—were finally gone.

Antonio Moretti had started with forty dollars and a broken heart.

But looking up at the stars from the balcony, safe in Luca’s arms, I knew his true legacy wasn’t his money, his empire, or his power.

His legacy was us.

We were home.