Chapter 9 – THE FIRST MORNING WITHOUT FEAR

The next morning, I woke up in a bed so soft I felt like I was floating. Sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the master guest suite, warming the thick silk blankets.

For a terrifying, heart-stopping second, I panicked. I threw off the covers, expecting to hear the household manager yelling at me to grab my mop and bucket. I expected to feel the panic of being late for my shift.

Then, I saw the beautiful, clean clothes laid out on the armchair. I saw the quiet elegance of the room.

I wasn’t a maid anymore. I was a Moretti.

I walked into the adjoining room. Oliver was sprawled across the massive bed, snoring softly, one leg thrown over a mountain of pillows. He looked so peaceful, completely untouched by the violence of the past forty-eight hours.

I went into the marble bathroom, turned on the shower, and finally let myself cry.

I cried for Matteo. I cried for the brave, desperate man who had bled to death in a cold alley so his son could have a future. I cried for the three years I had spent hating him, believing he had abandoned us. The grief was overwhelming, but for the first time, it was clean. The poison of betrayal was gone.

When I finally dressed in the soft cashmere sweater and jeans the staff had provided, I walked downstairs.

The mansion felt different. The oppressive, terrifying atmosphere that Vanessa had cultivated was gone. The house felt bright, open, and breathing.

I found Luca in the kitchen. He was sitting at the island, wearing a simple black t-shirt and sweatpants, drinking coffee. He looked exhausted, the dark circles under his eyes prominent, but the heavy, violent tension that usually radiated from him was absent.

He looked up and smiled—a real, genuine smile that made him look shockingly like his brother.

“Good morning,” he said gently. “How did you sleep?”

“Like I hadn’t slept in three years,” I admitted, sitting on the stool across from him.

A personal chef immediately set a plate of warm pastries and fresh fruit in front of me. I stared at it, still unused to being served.

Luca pushed a cup of coffee toward me. “I talked to Marco this morning.”

I tensed. “Is he…?”

“He’s alive,” Luca said. “I bought his daughters back from Silvio’s men before the police raided the orphanage. Marco and his girls are on a plane to Italy right now. He’ll never come back to Chicago, but they’re safe. It was the least I could do for the man who tried to save my brother.”

I nodded, grateful that at least one family hadn’t been completely destroyed by Silvio’s greed.

“And Vanessa?” I asked softly.

Luca’s jaw hardened briefly. “She made a deal with the feds. She testified against Silvio for a reduced sentence. She’ll spend the next ten years in federal prison. Silvio will die in one.”

It was over. It was truly over.

“I want to have a funeral,” Luca said suddenly, looking down at his coffee mug. “For Matteo. A real one. The family needs to honor him properly. And you need to say goodbye.”

Tears pricked my eyes again. “I would like that.”

Later that afternoon, Luca took Oliver out to the sprawling back lawn. I watched from the patio as the terrifying mafia boss awkwardly tried to show a five-year-old how to throw a baseball.

“Daddy said you have to step with your front foot!” Oliver instructed seriously, holding a baseball that was too big for his hand.

Luca laughed, a rich, deep sound I had never heard before. “Your daddy was right, buddy. Let’s try it again.”

Watching them, my heart swelled with a bittersweet ache. Matteo was gone, but his spirit was right here in this yard.

The household manager, Mrs. Gable, stepped onto the patio beside me. She wasn’t carrying a reprimand; she was carrying a dusty wooden box.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Moretti,” she said respectfully. “This arrived in the mail this morning. It was forwarded from your old apartment address.”

I frowned, taking the heavy box. It was covered in faded stamps and forwarding stickers.

I carried it into Luca’s study and set it on the desk. I used a letter opener to pry the wooden lid off.

Inside was a layer of velvet. And beneath the velvet, resting on a bed of white silk, was the most breathtaking diamond necklace I had ever seen.

My breath hitched.

Beneath the necklace was a folded piece of heavy parchment paper, sealed with red wax.

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