Chapter 9 - THE HEIR TO THE EMPIRE
Six months later. The Chicago mansion looked entirely different. The heavy velvet curtains had been pulled down, replaced by sheer linen that let the morning sunlight flood the hallways. The oppressive, dark oil paintings had been moved to storage, making room for bright, framed photographs of a family finally healing. I walked into the massive, sunlit kitchen, carrying a fresh pot of coffee. I wasn’t wearing a black maid’s uniform anymore. I wore a sharp, tailored navy suit. Luca had promoted me to the head estate manager the week after the engagement dinner. He told me that anyone brave enough to fight a woman with a knife to protect his son was exactly the kind of person he wanted running his household. Rosa was sitting at the breakfast island, drinking an espresso. She looked ten years younger. The gray cardigan was gone, replaced by a beautiful silk blouse. She was no longer treated as a forgotten relic; she was the undisputed matriarch of the Moretti family, respected and revered by everyone who walked through the front doors. “Good morning, Emma,” Rosa smiled, setting her cup down. “Good morning, Mrs. Marchetti.” “Rosa, please,” she corrected me gently, as she did every morning. From the hallway, the sound of rapid, heavy footsteps echoed on the hardwood floor. Matteo ran into the kitchen, wearing a miniature Chicago Cubs baseball jersey and carrying a brand-new leather baseball glove. He was laughing—a loud, joyous sound that still made my heart swell every time I heard it. The haunted, starving boy from the cellar was gone, replaced by a vibrant, deeply loved child. Luca jogged in right behind him, wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt, completely stripped of his mafia boss armor. “He’s got an arm on him, Rosa,” Luca laughed, scooping Matteo up and tossing him into the air. Matteo shrieked with delight. “He gets it from his grandfather,” Rosa said softly, a fond smile on her face. Luca set Matteo down on a stool and poured him a glass of orange juice. “Emma,” Luca said, turning to me. “Did the lawyers call about the Bellini trial?” “Yes, sir,” I replied. “Vanessa took the plea deal. Thirty years, no chance of parole. Her father’s lieutenants have all flipped. The syndicate is completely dismantled.” Luca nodded, a profound peace settling over his features. He didn’t have to look over his shoulder anymore. The shipping ports were secure, his enemies were in prison, and his son was safe. Matteo tugged on Luca’s sleeve. “Papa?” the boy asked. “Yes, Leo?” Matteo reached into his pocket and pulled out the heavy silver pocket watch. Luca had paid a master jeweler to fix the shattered glass and repair the internal gears. It was ticking perfectly now, a steady, rhythmic heartbeat. “Can we put the picture back inside?” Matteo asked. He held up the photograph of his mother, Isabella. The same photograph that had been hidden in the wooden box. Luca’s eyes softened. He sat down next to his son and gently took the watch and the photo. “Of course we can,” Luca said. He opened the casing and carefully tucked the photograph of the woman he loved inside, right next to the ticking clock face. He handed the watch back to Matteo. Matteo gripped it tightly, his small thumb tracing the silver engraving on the back. He looked at Luca, then at Rosa, and finally at me. He smiled—a wide, brilliant smile that belonged entirely in the light. “It’s time to play catch, Papa,” Matteo said. “Yes, it is,” Luca agreed, kissing the top of his son’s head. As they walked out the back doors into the sprawling, sunlit gardens, Rosa reached over and squeezed my hand. We didn’t need to say a word. The heavy iron doors of the past were finally, permanently locked. And the Moretti family was exactly where they belonged. In the light.
