Chapter 13 - THE SEEDS OF RESTORATION
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Three weeks passed, bringing the deep, quiet snows of December across the city of Chicago.
The front pages of the Chicago Tribune and the Sun-Times had exploded with sensational headlines detailing the fall of the Bellini syndicate.
Photographs of Salvatore and Vanessa being led into the federal courthouse in orange jumpsuits dominated every newsstand from Loop to Lake Forest.
The corrupt coroner had been arrested, two crooked city inspectors were behind bars, and the Bellini empire had evaporated like morning mist.
Meanwhile, inside the newly established offices of the Moretti Family Foundation in downtown Chicago, my life had transformed completely.
I sat behind a sunny oak desk, reviewing the final financial distribution statements prepared by Marco.
Every single dollar of the six million stolen from the seventeen retirees had been transferred directly into their personal bank accounts.
In addition, the federal judge had awarded an extra fifty million dollars in punitive damages seized from Salvatore Bellini’s offshore commercial assets.
Old Joseph had already moved into a beautiful single-story brick bungalow in Oak Park, with a heated garage and a full-time private nurse to manage his diabetes.
Maria had repurchased her family home in South Shore, celebrating with a massive feast for her four children and eleven grandchildren.
The family of Antonio, the late master gardener, received a full memorial endowment that established a free horticultural scholarship in his name at the Chicago Botanic Garden.
A soft knock at my office door broke my concentration.
Luca walked in, wearing an open-collared navy cashmere sweater and dark trousers, looking more relaxed and content than I had ever seen him.
“How are the numbers looking, Claire?” he asked, resting a warm cup of coffee on my desk blotter.
“Every single account has been cleared and audited, Mr. Moretti,” I said proudly, handing him the summary report.
“All seventeen families have confirmed their balances.”
“Not a single person is behind on rent, utilities, or medical bills.”
Luca scanned the pages, a quiet satisfaction settling over his features.
“And Mama Teresa’s bakery?” he asked.
I smiled broadly, pulling up a deed of sale on my computer monitor.
“The historic Romano Bakery on Taylor Street has been fully repurchased from the holding company.”
“The renovation crews finished installing the new commercial ovens and pastry cases yesterday afternoon.”
“The grand re-opening is scheduled for Christmas Eve.”
Luca nodded slowly, staring out the panoramic window at the snow drifting over the city skyline.
“My father used to take me there every Sunday after Mass,” he reminisced, his voice full of warmth.
“Teresa would sneak me a warm cannoli through the kitchen pass before the pastry case was even unlocked.”
“She gave this city forty years of sweetness while her own life was made bitter by thieves.”
“She will never taste bitterness again,” I said softly.
Luca looked at me, his eyes filled with immense respect.
“Neither will you, Claire.”
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“You stood up for justice when everyone else looked down at their plates.”
“Tonight, we celebrate where it all began.”
