Chapter 8 - THE REPAIR OF THE HOUSE
Two weeks later, the Chicago Gold Coast mansion looked entirely different.
The heavy, oppressive silence that used to hang over the marble foyer had been replaced by the sound of fresh paint being rolled onto the walls, laughter drifting from the kitchen, and sunlight pouring unobstructed through polished windows.
The federal investigation into Julian Vance and the Moretti syndicate had concluded swiftly, resulting in multiple indictments for financial fraud, racketeering, and conspiracy.
Vanessa Bellini’s father, Arthur, had taken a plea deal, turning over the remaining Bellini shipping assets to the newly formed Moretti Community Foundation—the very charity trust Clara Moretti had designed twenty-five years ago.
And inside the private study on the second floor, my desk sat directly beside the newly restored mahogany bookshelf.
“Are you sure about these figures, Claire?” Luca asked, walking into the study holding a cup of black coffee and setting it down beside my laptop.
“Every single cent from the harbor trust is accounted for,” I said, looking up from the spreadsheet. “The first wave of community grants for the Bridgeport youth centers goes out on Monday morning, exactly as your mother’s trust stipulated.”
Luca smiled, leaning against the edge of the desk. He looked relaxed—no tuxedo, no tight collar, just a dark cashmere sweater and the quiet confidence of a man who no longer had anything to hide.
“You’ve completely reorganized the entire estate administration in fourteen days,” Luca said. “At this rate, I’m going to have to make you a partner in the foundation just to keep up.”
“I’ll take the office with the window facing the east garden,” I joked.
“Done.”
A soft knock sounded at the open study door.
We both looked up.
Standing in the doorway was Mr. Petrov, holding a small cardboard bakery box tied with white string.
“Excuse me, boss—and excuse me, Claire,” the old gardener said with a warm smile. “I figured since the new greenhouse is finally producing our first harvest of heirloom tomatoes, we needed something sweet to celebrate.”
Luca groaned playfully. “Don’t tell me.”
“Prune cake,” Mr. Petrov announced proudly, setting the box down on the center table. “Your mother’s exact recipe, Luca. Baked fresh this morning.”
I laughed, standing up from my desk. “Come on, Mr. Petrov. Let’s get some plates before Luca finds an excuse to feed it to Dante’s guard dogs.”
“Guard dogs have better taste than that,” Luca muttered, though he was smiling as he followed us down the hall toward the kitchen.
As we walked down the grand staircase, the afternoon sun caught the silver chain around my neck—the one my father had given me on my tenth birthday, the one holding the small silver key that matched the old lock in the greenhouse floor.
My mother’s medical care was fully paid for, my father was recovering his strength at a wonderful rehabilitation center on the North Side, and for the first time in my life, I wasn't running from a shadow.
We reached the kitchen, where a large batch of fresh coffee was brewing and the morning light flooded through the tall windows overlooking the newly blooming rose beds.
Mr. Petrov opened the bakery box, revealing the dark, uneven cake inside.
May you like
Luca looked at it, shook his head, and then picked up the cake knife with a steady, certain hand.
“All right,” Luca said, looking around the room at Viktor, at the bright morning sun, and finally meeting my eyes. “Let’s see if it’s as bad as I remember.”
