Chapter 8 - The Morning on Lincoln Avenue
Six months later. May in Chicago.
The city had broken free from the grip of winter with an explosion of brilliant sunshine, green canopies across the parks, and the sweet, heavy fragrance of blooming lilacs drifting off the lake.
The scandal that had torn through the Bellini and Genovese empires had settled into the dark annals of the American underworld.
Camilla Thorne had entered a guilty plea to federal charges of identity theft, wire fraud, and second-degree arson in the death of Vanessa Bellini, sentenced to thirty-five years at the Federal Correctional Institution in Danbury without the possibility of parole.
Don Carmine Genovese had suffered a massive stroke during his federal grand jury deposition in Manhattan three months later, effectively dissolving the New York syndicate’s influence over the Midwestern ports forever.
The Moretti estate on Lake Shore Drive had been transformed.
The tall iron gates—the gates where my stocking had once been soaked in blood—now stood open during the day, flanked by fresh hydrangeas and blooming white roses.
Margaret Bellini was living comfortably in a sun-drenched, single-story stone cottage on the northern edge of the estate, spending her mornings tending to her greenhouse orchids and her afternoons drinking tea on the terrace with Mrs. Carter, who had become her closest companion.
My mother was thriving.
She lived in a beautiful, four-bedroom brownstone on Lincoln Avenue, her arthritis managed by the best specialists at Northwestern Memorial, her days spent spoiling the neighborhood children with homemade Italian cookies and telling everyone at the butcher shop about her "magnificent son-in-law."
And I was no longer Lucy Bennett, the girl who worried about four hundred dollars until Monday.
I was the Executive Director of the Moretti Maritime Trust, overseeing eighty million dollars in commercial harbor transport, forty educational endowments for dockworkers' children, and three women’s shelters across the South Side.
On a warm, breezy Saturday afternoon, the grand terrace of the Moretti mansion was dressed in white silk awnings, silver ribbons, and thousands of fresh lilies for our private wedding reception.
There were no four hundred mob bosses in attendance today. No politicians, no corrupt judges, no television cameras.
There were only seventy people: union crane operators in clean Sunday suits, the household staff sitting as guests of honor at the head table, my mother weeping happily into an embroidered handkerchief, and Samuel Bennett sitting at the baby grand piano on the terrace, playing old Italian folk songs with a smile that lit up his blind eyes.
I stood by the marble balustrade overlooking Lake Michigan, wearing a simple, breathtaking ivory lace gown cut with a classic boat neckline that showcased Maria Moretti’s sapphire necklace resting proudly against my throat.
A pair of strong, familiar arms wrapped around my waist from behind.
Luca pulled me back against his broad chest, resting his chin on the crown of my head, his scent of cedarwood, ocean air, and clean soap instantly enveloping me in absolute peace.
“You're quiet, Mrs. Moretti,” he murmured, his voice rumbling warmly against my spine.
“I was just thinking,” I smiled, leaning back into his embrace, turning my head to press a soft kiss against his jawline. “A year ago today, I was carrying a mop bucket up those basement stairs, terrified that Miss Bellini was going to fire me because I scuffed a floorboard.”
Luca chuckled softly, a low, rich sound that had become frequent in this house over the past six months. He reached down, his large, scarred hand gently covering mine where it rested on the stone balustrade, feeling the heavy platinum wedding band on my finger.
“You were never just a maid, Lucy,” he whispered, his lips brushing the side of my neck. “You were the anchor that kept this entire empire from drifting into the dark.”
The terrace doors clicked open behind us.
Daniel walked out onto the stone, dressed in a sharp summer suit, carrying a silver tray with a single, sealed manila envelope bearing the official wax stamp of the Federal Bureau of Investigation’s forensic laboratory in Quantico.
He stopped three paces away, his scarred face unusually serious.
“Boss,” Daniel said quietly.
Luca kept his arm locked firmly around my waist, turning his head slightly. “What is it, Daniel? The afternoon belongs to my wife.”
“I know, sir,” Daniel said, his voice dropping into a tense, heavy register. “A special courier just delivered this from Washington. The final forensic report from the Wisconsin cabin fire eight years ago.”
May you like
Luca’s brow furrowed. “The case is closed, Daniel. Camilla confessed to the arson. She’s in Danbury.”
“Camilla confessed to setting the fire, boss,” Daniel murmured, holding out the envelope. “She didn't confess to who was inside.”
