Chapter 10 - EIGHTEEN YEARS IN EXILE
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The enormous Christmas tree twinkled merrily in the corner, an ironic contrast to the shattered glass and spilled wine across the floor.
Olivia sat collapsed in her chair, her slender frame shivering violently from the delayed shock of the confrontation.
Luca walked over to his sister and slowly sank onto both knees before her.
He reached out with hesitant, trembling hands and took her rough, calloused fingers into his own warm palms.
"Eighteen years," Luca whispered, a lone tear finally escaping his eye and tracing down his battle-hardened cheek.
"I believed you abandoned me because you hated the violence of our father's world."
"I hated myself every single day for driving you away."
Olivia looked down at her brother, her tired blue eyes softening with unconditional love.
"I never hated you, Luca," Olivia said, her voice shaking with profound exhaustion.
"I watched your life from afar, reading newspaper clippings in tiny laundromats across Iowa and Ohio."
"I saw when you took over the syndicate, and I saw when you married that woman."
"Every Christmas, I bought a small cupcake, lit a single candle, and said a prayer for your safety."
Luca pressed his forehead against her knees, his broad shoulders shaking with silent, agonizing sobs.
The feared mafia boss of Chicago was weeping like a heartbroken child in the arms of the sister he thought was lost.
I discreetly picked up my silver serving tray, preparing to slip quietly out of the room to give them privacy.
"Claire," Luca called out softly without lifting his head.
I stopped in my tracks near the kitchen entrance.
"Yes, Mr. Moretti?" I answered respectfully.
Luca rose slowly to his feet, wiping the moisture from his face with the back of his hand.
"You saved my life tonight," Luca said, looking directly into my eyes with genuine reverence.
"Silvio would have shot me or my sister if you hadn't struck him with that wine cooler."
"I only did what was right, sir," I whispered, lowering my eyes modestly.
"You did what thirty heavily armed men lacked the courage to do," Luca replied firmly.
He turned his attention back to his trembling sister.
"Please, Claire, escort Olivia to the master guest suite on the second floor."
"Draw her a warm bath, find her the finest silk clothes from the wardrobe, and prepare a fresh, hot meal."
"Nobody enters that room without my personal clearance."
"Yes, Mr. Moretti," I said, offering Olivia a gentle, reassuring smile.
I walked over to Olivia and offered my arm, which she accepted with profound gratitude.
As we walked slowly up the grand staircase together, Olivia leaned heavily against me.
"Thank you, Claire," Olivia murmured softly as we entered the luxurious warmth of the suite.
"I haven't slept in a real bed in more than three years."
"I have been working as a night cleaner in a bus depot just to afford the bus ticket back to Chicago."
My heart broke for this proud, resilient woman who had endured eighteen years of terror in the shadows.
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"You are home now, Miss Moretti," I assured her gently, turning on the gold faucets of the porcelain tub.
"And no one will ever hurt you in this house again."
