Chapter 9 - THE HEALING OF WOUNDS
Three months passed.
The harsh Chicago winter had finally broken, giving way to the brilliant, emerald green of early spring. The Lake Forest estate, once so cold and suffocating, had transformed completely.
The heavy, dark velvet draperies that had made the rooms feel like a seventeenth-century prison had been replaced with airy, cream-colored linen. Fresh flowers—daffodils, white lilacs, and peach roses—sat in crystal vases on every sideboard.
And the massive Florentine mirror in the grand foyer had been removed. In its place hung a magnificent landscape oil painting of the Irish coastline—a gift Luca had commissioned for me after I mentioned how much my father had loved his homeland.
I stood on the stone terrace overlooking the blooming gardens, wearing a soft cashmere sweater and jeans, holding a warm mug of tea.
My back had healed completely. The daily physical therapy sessions with the private specialist Luca had hired had rebuilt the torn lumbar tissue until the injury was nothing more than a faint memory on rainy mornings.
The glass doors slid open, and my mother walked out onto the terrace.
Elena Bennett looked fifteen years younger. The pale, grey cast that had haunted her skin for five years was gone, replaced by a healthy, vibrant flush. Her new kidney was functioning perfectly, her lab results coming back spotless every single week. She wore a tailored beige cardigan and a bright silk scarf, looking like she belonged on the cover of an architectural magazine rather than in a South Side public clinic.
"You're daydreaming again, Claire," my mother teased, coming to stand beside me and taking a deep breath of the spring air.
"I'm just thinking about how crazy this year has been, Mom," I smiled, leaning my head against her shoulder. "Sometimes I wake up and think I'm going to hear Mrs. Carter’s alarm buzzer telling me to scrub the silver."
My mother smiled softly, turning to look at me with eyes full of fierce, maternal love. "You were never meant to scrub silver, sweetheart. Your father always said you had the heart of a lioness. You saved my life, Claire."
"Luca saved your life, Mom."
"Luca provided the means," she corrected gently, tapping my chest. "You provided the courage. A man like Luca Moretti doesn't give his heart to someone who bends in the wind. He saw who you were when you were carrying that ridiculous mirror."
A low, familiar step sounded on the flagstones behind us.
Luca emerged onto the terrace, wearing dark trousers and a crisp navy linen shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms. He carried a silver tray with a plate of warm lemon scones that Mrs. Carter had just pulled from the oven.
"Elena," Luca said, greeting my mother with a respectful nod and a warm smile. "Dr. Harris called from the clinic. Your blood work is impeccable. He said you can start light gardening next week if you feel up to it."
"Thank God," my mother laughed, taking a scone from the tray. "If I have to sit inside watching television for another week, Luca, I'm going to start rearranging your library by color."
"Please don't," Luca chuckled. "Daniel spent three days cataloging the military histories. It would break his heart."
My mother smiled warmly at both of us, took her scone, and gave me a knowing wink. "I’ll leave you two alone. I promised Mrs. Carter I’d show her how to make proper Irish soda bread."
She slipped back inside, the glass doors clicking shut behind her.
Luca set the tray down on the wrought-iron patio table and stepped up behind me. His arms slid around my waist, pulling my back flush against his chest. I leaned back into his solid warmth, letting out a contented sigh as his chin rested gently against the crown of my head.
"You look peaceful," he murmured, his breath warm against my ear.
"I am peaceful," I replied, turning in his embrace to wrap my arms around his neck. "For the first time in my life, Luca."
"Good," he said, his dark eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that took my breath away. "Because tonight is the Spring Gala at the Art Institute."
"I know," I said, a slight nervous flutter returning to my stomach. "The Commission will be there. The heads of the New York families. The city officials."
"Yes," Luca nodded, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small, velvet-lined jeweler’s box. "And I intend to make an announcement."
My heart stopped.
He opened the box.
Sitting inside, nestled in black velvet, was an antique emerald-cut diamond ring, flanked by two deep blue sapphires—the colors of my birthstone and the Moretti crest, forged together into a masterpiece of understated, breathtaking elegance. It was nothing like the vulgar, ostentatious rock he had given Vanessa.
It was timeless. It was real.
"Claire," Luca said, his voice dropping into that deep, unsteady timbre of a man laying his entire soul on the line. "Eleven months ago, you walked into this house with your head down, carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders. You took a hit for me before you even knew who I really was. You showed me what honor, courage, and real loyalty look like."
He took my left hand, his fingers warm and steady.
"I don't want to rule this city alone. I want you to build an empire with me. I want you to be my wife."
Tears filled my eyes, but this time, they weren't tears of pain or terror. They were tears of pure, blinding joy.
"Yes," I whispered, throwing my arms around his neck. "Yes, Luca. A thousand times, yes."
May you like
He lifted me off the flagstones, spinning me around in the bright spring sunshine, his laughter echoing across the terrace before his lips came down on mine in a kiss that erased every shadow, every bruise, and every fear that had ever touched my life.
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