Chapter 7 - A Table for Three
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By Monday afternoon, the stormy skies over Lake Michigan had cleared, replaced by crisp autumn sunshine that painted the trees in vibrant shades of gold and amber.
The iron gates of the estate had been repaired with reinforced titanium hinges and double guard posts.
Down in the city, the Bellini family docks had been quietly signed over to Luca’s shipping companies without a single drop of blood spilled.
And best of all, my mother had been moved into a private sunlit suite at St. Jude’s, surrounded by blooming orchids and the best therapists in Illinois.
When I visited her on Sunday evening, she had held my hands and wept, asking how on earth I had found an angel to save us.
I hadn't had the heart to tell her that my "angel" was the most feared mafia don in the Midwest.
Now, wearing a tailored charcoal pencil skirt and a soft cream silk blouse instead of a housemaid's apron, I stood in the kitchen overseeing the preparation of dinner.
Mrs. Carter was humming a cheerful Italian tune as she chopped fresh basil and heirloom tomatoes.
"You look stunning, Nora," Mrs. Carter remarked, wiping her hands on a cloth and winking at me.
"Much better than that stiff black uniform."
"I still feel like an impostor," I admitted, blushing slightly as I checked the evening's dinner roster.
"I've spent my whole life serving plates, not managing an entire household staff."
"You earned this with your heart, child," Mrs. Carter said softly, placing a warm hand on my arm.
"Luca Moretti doesn't give handouts."
"He recognizes gold when he finds it in the dust."
The kitchen doors swung open, and Ethan came bounding in, wearing his school uniform with his backpack slung over one shoulder.
"Miss Nora!" he cheered, skidding across the tile floor and throwing his arms around my waist.
"Look what I made in art class!"
I knelt down and caught him in a warm hug, smiling as he pulled a crumpled sheet of construction paper from his bag.
It was a colorful crayon drawing of a large stone mansion.
In front of the house stood three figures holding hands: a tall man with black hair, a little boy with a red backpack, and a girl with brown hair in a cream blouse.
Above the figures, in wobbly handwriting, it said: OUR SAFE HOME.
My throat constricted with sudden, overwhelming emotion.
"Ethan... this is the most beautiful drawing I've ever seen," I whispered, gently tracing the wobbly crayon lines.
"I made it for you to hang on your new office wall," Ethan beamed proudly.
"Because you keep us safe."
"What's this about keeping us safe?" a deep, resonant voice asked from the doorway.
We both turned our heads.
Luca stood leaning against the doorframe, his dark suit jacket unbuttoned, his silk tie loosened slightly at his throat.
He looked relaxed, the lethal tension that usually clung to his broad frame softened by the sight of his son.
"Daddy! Look!" Ethan shouted, running over to show off his masterpiece.
Luca took the paper with utmost care, holding it as if it were a priceless Renaissance painting.
His eyes lingered on the three figures—specifically the small hand of his son linking mine with his.
Luca looked up, his dark eyes catching mine across the kitchen island.
The intensity in his gaze made my pulse flutter wildly against my collarbone.
"This belongs in a frame," Luca said, his voice dropping an octave.
"I'll have Marco take it to the gallery in the morning."
"Daddy, can Miss Nora eat dinner with us tonight?" Ethan asked suddenly, tugging on his father's sleeve.
I immediately stiffened, panic rising in my chest.
"Oh, Ethan, no, sweetie," I intervened quickly.
"I have so much paperwork to finish in the office, and your father needs time to—"
"Set three places at the dining table, Mrs. Carter," Luca interrupted smoothly, never taking his eyes off me.
"Yes, Mr. Moretti," Mrs. Carter replied with a knowing, mischievous smile.
"Mr. Moretti, really, it's not proper," I protested, my cheeks burning with heat.
"I am an employee here."
Luca took three slow, deliberate strides toward me, stopping just inches away.
He was so tall I had to tilt my head back to meet his gaze.
He smelled intoxicatingly of sandalwood, clean linen, and cold lake wind.
"You are Ethan's guardian, Nora," Luca said, his voice low and intimate.
"And at my table, the person who guards my son's life always has a seat."
"Besides," he added, a genuine, breathtaking smile breaking across his handsome face.
"Ethan insists on having company who actually understands his stories about dinosaurs."
Ethan giggled loudly, grabbing my hand and pulling me toward the dining room.
For the first time in fourteen months, I did not stand by the sideboard with a silver tray.
I sat down on a gilded chair beside Ethan, opposite Luca Moretti.
The dining room was warm and filled with the mouthwatering aroma of allergen-free homemade pasta and fresh bread.
Ethan talked non-stop about his science project, his hands flying through the air with childish excitement.
Luca listened intently, laughing heartily at his son's jokes—a rich, deep sound that filled the cavernous room with life.
Whenever our eyes met across the flickering candlelight, a gentle, unspoken electricity danced between us.
For one glorious evening, the mafia boss, the orphaned boy, and the former housemaid felt like something impossible.
May you like
We felt like a family.
But in the shadows beyond the glowing estate windows, the quiet was only an illusion.
