Chapter 8 – THE HAPPY ENDING

Six Months Later.

The Chicago mansion was filled with the smell of roasting garlic, fresh basil, and simmering marinara.

It was Sunday afternoon.

I walked through the grand foyer, not in a maid’s apron, but in a tailored emerald green dress.

The mansion looked different. It felt lighter, warmer. The staff moved with ease, no longer terrified of a demanding, cruel fiancée.

I carried a stack of files under my arm, heading toward Luca’s study.

As his executive assistant, I had spent the last six months helping him restructure the family’s legitimate businesses. The Romanos were in prison. Vanessa was facing a twenty-year sentence for extortion and conspiracy.

The Moretti family was completely legitimate now.

I pushed open the door to the dining room to drop off a guest list for an upcoming charity gala.

Teresa was sitting at the head of the long table.

She was wearing her hearing aids, laughing brightly as she spoke to my mother.

My mother was sitting beside her, looking healthier and happier than she had in years, drinking a glass of red wine.

“And then Giovanni told him,” Teresa laughed, “if you can’t cook the sauce, you can’t eat the pasta!”

My mother threw her head back and laughed loudly.

Teresa didn’t miss a beat. She didn’t ask anyone to repeat themselves. She was engaged, sharp, and completely in her element.

“Hannah, sweetheart!” Teresa called out when she saw me.

“Hi, Mrs. Moretti,” I smiled, walking over to kiss her cheek.

“How many times do I have to tell you?” she scolded gently, squeezing my hand. “Call me Teresa.”

“Sorry. Teresa.”

She patted the empty chair beside her.

“Luca is just finishing up a call. Sit with us. Your mother was just telling me about your father.”

I sat down, feeling a profound sense of peace.

This was where I belonged.

A few minutes later, the study doors opened.

Luca walked into the dining room.

He was wearing a casual black button-down, his sleeves rolled up, revealing the dark ink on his forearms.

He stopped at the edge of the table, looking at the three women in his life.

His mother, safe and thriving.

My mother, healed and secure.

And me.

He walked over and pulled out the chair directly across from me.

As he sat down, his knee brushed gently against mine under the table.

I looked up at him.

He smiled.

“Everything good?” he asked softly.

“Everything is perfect,” I replied.

Teresa raised her glass of wine.

“To family,” she said, her voice clear and strong.

Luca raised his glass, holding my gaze across the table.

“To family,” he repeated.