Chapter 14 - The Ashes of Lake Shore Drive
The morning mist rolling off Lake Michigan was cold, silver, and smelled of coming autumn.
Six months had passed since the night the world burned down at Pier 42.
The massive wrought-iron gates of the Moretti estate on Lake Shore Drive stood wide open.
Yellow official crime-scene tape still flapped against the stone gateposts, frayed and weathered by months of Midwestern rain and wind.
On the front lawn, an immense white billboard displayed the official seal of the United States Marshals Service.
PUBLIC AUCTION — SEIZED UNDER TITLE 18 RACKETEERING FORFEITURE.
The limestone driveway, once crowded with armored Maybachs and teams of armed sentries, was completely empty.
I stepped out of a modest gray sedan, pulling the collar of my simple black coat against the breeze.
Beside me walked Marco, wearing a civilian leather jacket and slacks, looking more like an ordinary retired tradesman than a former mafia enforcer.
"You didn't have to come here, Elena," Marco said quietly, his hands tucked into his pockets.
"The marshals gave you permission to take whatever personal property you wanted without visiting the site."
"I needed to see it empty, Marco," I answered, looking up at the soaring limestone facades and the grand balcony where Valentina had stood six months ago.
"I needed to make sure the ghost was really dead."
We walked through the towering mahogany front doors, our footsteps echoing against the Italian marble foyer.
The house was stripped bare.
The crystal chandeliers had been crated and removed for auction.
The modern oil paintings, the gilded mirrors, and the antique Roman statuary had all been cataloged, numbered, and hauled away in federal vans.
Only the high ceilings, the cold marble, and the hollow wind blowing through the courtyard remained.
I walked slowly up the curved grand staircase, running my fingers along the smooth wrought-iron banister.
I entered the master suite.
The floorboards were bare.
The enormous four-poster walnut bed where Alessandro and I had whispered in the dark was gone.
The sliding glass doors leading to the balcony were unlocked.
I walked out onto the stone terrace, the same terrace the news cameras had filmed on that fateful Tuesday afternoon.
The lake stretched out before me, vast, gray, and indifferent to the rise and fall of criminal dynasties.
I remembered the suffocating terror I felt watching that broadcast in my tiny Wisconsin kitchen.
I remembered the feeling of being discarded, of believing that eight years of devotion had been casually erased by an arrogant Don and his ambitious mistress.
How small that pain seemed now.
How distant that betrayal felt when weighed against the terrifying, tragic truth of what Alessandro had sacrificed to keep me breathing.
Marco stepped onto the terrace behind me, holding a small cardboard box sealed with brown packing tape.
"Lucia sent this from Phoenix," Marco said, holding the box out toward me.
"She arrived at the new bungalow yesterday."
"She said the desert air is good for her arthritis."
"She wanted you to have this before the marshals locked the property."
I opened the cardboard box under the pale morning sun.
Inside, folded neatly between two layers of white tissue paper, was the pale blue raw silk robe.
The Florence embroidery was still intact along the lapels, delicate and pristine.
I ran my fingers across the cool, smooth fabric.
It was the garment Alessandro had draped over my shoulders on our fifth anniversary in Tuscany.
It was the garment Valentina had paraded before the television helicopters to declare her false victory.
I walked back into the empty master bedroom, where the immense stone fireplace stood cold and blackened with soot.
I pulled a box of wooden matches from my coat pocket.
I struck a match against the sulfur strip, watching the small yellow flame dance in the drafty air.
I touched the flame to the hem of the silk robe.
The raw silk caught instantly, a brilliant orange flame creeping up the delicate threads with a quiet, hungry hiss.
I dropped the burning garment onto the stone hearth, watching the silk shrivel into black ash, curls of gray smoke drifting up the chimney into the cold Chicago sky.
The anniversary was gone.
The betrayal was gone.
The gilded cage had finally burned to the ground.
Marco stood in the doorway, watching the ashes settle with a solemn, respectful silence.
"Alessandro was transferred to Terre Haute this morning," Marco murmured, looking at the floor.
"The judge signed the twenty-five-year sentence."
"He didn't file an appeal."
"He told his lawyers that he accepted the judgment of the court and the judgment of his wife."
I looked down at the charred embers in the fireplace.
"Did he say anything else, Marco?"
"He asked me to give you this," Marco said, pulling a folded legal document from his leather jacket.
It was the official Cook County judgment of absolute divorce.
Signed by the chief judge.
Signed by the federal oversight master.
And signed at the bottom in bold, dark ink by Alessandro Moretti.
Beside his signature, written in his familiar, sharp handwriting, were three short words:
You are free.
I folded the document neatly, placing it inside my coat against my heart.
May you like
"Let's go, Marco," I said, walking past him toward the grand staircase.
"There’s nothing left for us here."
