Chapter 7 - The Winter Frost
Three weeks passed, and winter arrived in Chicago with a vengeance.
The city was buried under eight inches of pristine white snow, turning the Gold Coast estate into a sprawling, silent palace of ice and stone. The lake was freezing along the shoreline, sending jagged shards of blue ice crashing against the retaining walls.
My life had shifted so completely that sometimes, waking up in the third-floor suite, I had to look at my hands to convince myself I wasn't dreaming.
The scar on my shoulder had healed into a thin, pale silver line—a permanent reminder of the day everything changed.
My mother had been discharged from the Lake Geneva recovery villa and moved into a beautiful, sunlit townhouse in Evanston, entirely funded by the Moretti Foundation. When I visited her on Sundays, she looked ten years younger, her cheeks flushed with health, tending to indoor orchids and asking endless questions about the "charming Mr. Moretti."
As Director of Estate Operations, my days were filled with meaningful work.
I managed the foundation's charity distributions, organized the renovation of three animal shelters on the South Side, and oversaw the household staff—not as a harsh taskmaster like Vanessa, but as someone who knew exactly how much their feet ached at the end of a fourteen-hour shift. The staff respected me, not out of fear, but out of genuine affection.
And Bruno spent every single afternoon sleeping on a thick orthopedic heated bed beside my desk in the library.
Yet, despite the peace that had settled over the house, an unspoken, electric tension simmered between Luca and me.
We saw each other every day. We shared breakfast in the conservatory. We discussed foundation business late into the evening by the library fire. But whenever the conversation drifted toward something personal—whenever his gray eyes lingered on my lips, or his fingers brushed against mine over a stack of documents—a wall of invisible restraint seemed to hold him back.
He was the Don of Chicago. I was a former housekeeper.
The divide between our worlds was supposed to be insurmountable.
One evening, shortly after eight, the snow was falling in heavy, silent flakes outside the tall library windows. The fire crackled in the hearth, casting long, dancing shadows across the rows of leather-bound books.
Bruno was snoring softly, his front paws twitching in a dream.
I was sitting at the mahogany desk, reviewing the annual budget for the animal sanctuary, when the heavy oak doors swung open.
Luca entered.
He had just returned from a three-day trip to New York, meeting with the Commission to finalize the new trade agreements following the Bellini fallout. He looked exhausted. His overcoat was dusted with snow, his tie loosened at the collar, dark stubble shadowing his strong jawline.
When his eyes found me sitting beneath the warm lamplight, the weariness seemed to drain from his face.
"You're still working," he said softly, closing the doors behind him.
"Just finishing the quarterly report," I answered, closing the ledger. "How was New York?"
"Loud. Cold. Full of men who talk too much." He shrugged off his coat, hanging it on the brass stand, and walked over to the desk. He reached down, scratching Bruno behind the ears, eliciting a contented tail thump from the sleeping dog.
Then he looked at me.
"I bought you something," Luca murmured.
My heart skipped a beat. "Luca, you've already given me everything. You don't need to buy me gifts."
"I wanted to."
He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small, velvet-lined jeweler's box, placing it gently on the leather blotter in front of me.
"Open it."
With a trembling hand, I lifted the lid.
Resting on the black velvet was an exquisite vintage brooch made of platinum and sapphire, shaped into a delicate forget-me-not flower. It was breathtakingly beautiful, understated yet possessing an undeniable, timeless elegance.
"It belonged to my mother," Luca said, his voice dropping into that deep, intimate baritone that always made my breath hitch. "My father gave it to her the day I was born. She told me once that I should only give it to a woman who understood what it meant to protect family."
I stared at the sparkling blue stones, my vision blurring with tears. "Luca... I can't take this. This belongs in a museum, or... or with someone of your station."
"My station?" Luca asked, taking a step closer, rounding the desk until he was standing beside my chair.
He reached down, his fingers gently catching my chin, lifting my face toward his. His touch was warm, sending a jolt of fire racing straight down my spine.
"Emma, for ten years, I've been surrounded by people of 'my station.' People with old blood, vast fortunes, and hollow chests where their hearts should be. Vanessa was my station. The men I negotiate with in New York are my station."
He bent down, resting his knee on the edge of the carpet, bringing himself level with my eyes.
"You are the only real thing that has entered this house in thirty years," he whispered, his thumb softly tracing the curve of my bottom lip. "You saved my soul the night you served that bread with your back bleeding. Don't tell me about station."
My breath caught in my throat. "Luca... they will talk. The other families. The syndicates."
"Let them talk," he breathed, his gray eyes darkening with an intensity that burned away every remaining doubt. "Let them say whatever they want. But if any man among them ever disrespects you, he answers to me."
He leaned in.
His lips touched mine—soft at first, hesitant, asking for permission—before deepening into a fierce, possessive kiss that made the entire world dissolve into heat and velvet darkness. My fingers found their way into his thick, dark hair, pulling him closer, surrendering completely to the hunger that had been building between us for eleven long months.
When he finally pulled back, resting his forehead against mine, his breathing was as ragged as my own.
May you like
"Stay with me, Emma," he murmured against my lips. "Not as an employee. Not as a director. Stay with me as mine."
"Yes," I whispered, tears spilling over my lashes as I smiled into his chest. "Yes."
