Chapter 4 - THE PRIVATE SANCTUARY
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The private study on the third floor of the Moretti estate was an impenetrable sanctuary of dark walnut and green leather.
Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined three walls, filled with antique Italian histories and family ledgers dating back to the 1920s.
A massive fireplace carved from green Vermont marble roared with cedar logs, warming the cool night air that drifted in from the lake.
Rose sat on the long leather chesterfield sofa, her head resting against Margaret’s shoulder.
Margaret stroked her daughter’s dark curls, humming a low, wordless melody that smelled of old lavender and grace.
The expensive designer veil that Rose had cast aside lay forgotten on the floorboards.
On her head, shimmering like fresh snow in the firelight, was the hand-sewn lace Margaret had carried through the service entrance.
I walked over to the side credenza, pouring two steaming mugs of Earl Grey tea from a silver pot.
I brought the tray over, setting it down on the low mahogany coffee table.
“Drink some tea, Mrs. Ellis,” I said gently, kneeling beside the couch.
“It will help calm your hands.”
Margaret looked at me, her eyes filled with an ocean of sweet, tearful gratitude.
“Thank you, Nora,” the older woman whispered, reaching out to pat my housekeeping apron with her frail hand.
“If you hadn't walked past that bench in the alley... I would have died without ever holding my Rosie again.”
Rose lifted her head, looking at me with swollen, dark eyes that mirrored Margaret’s so closely it made my heart ache.
“Lydia told me my birth mother died of pneumonia when I was ten, Nora,” Rose choked out.
“She gave me a silver locket with an empty frame and said there were no photographs left.”
“She burned them, Rosie,” Margaret whispered, her voice cracking with old grief.
“I sent forty letters from the hospital in Peoria.”
“I sent pictures of your fourth birthday in the park with your little red wagon.”
“Lydia sent every envelope back unopened with a note saying you would be punished if I ever wrote again.”
The heavy oak door of the study clicked open, and Dominic stepped inside.
He had removed his suit jacket, rolling the sleeves of his crisp black dress shirt up to his forearms.
The dark tattoos across his muscular arms stood out in sharp relief against the warm firelight.
He didn't look like the ruthless mob boss who commanded hundreds of soldiers on the Chicago docks.
He looked like a man carrying the crushing weight of a family that had forgotten the meaning of honor.
He walked over to the desk, pulled a wooden chair over to the sofa, and sat down opposite Rose and Margaret.
“How are you feeling, Margaret?” Dominic asked, his voice remarkably gentle.
“My heart is full, Mr. Moretti,” Margaret answered softly, managing a fragile, beautiful smile.
“My Rosie is holding my hand. That is all I ever prayed for.”
Dominic turned his gaze toward Rose, studying his cousin’s pale, tear-stained face.
“The marriage is void, Rose,” Dominic said plainly.
“The marriage certificate was never filed with the county clerk.”
“Our attorneys have already drafted the formal annulment documents based on fraudulent misrepresentation and duress.”
“By tomorrow morning, Daniel Whitmore will have no legal claim to your name, your trust fund, or your home.”
Rose let out a long, shuddering breath, closing her eyes as a fresh wave of relief washed over her.
“Thank you, Dominic.”
Dominic then turned his intense, dark gray eyes toward me, where I was still kneeling beside the coffee table.
The focus of his gaze was so heavy, so electric, that my breath caught in my throat.
“Nora,” he said softly.
“Yes, sir?”
“Why did you bring Margaret into that ballroom?”
I swallowed hard, feeling the rough cotton of my maid’s uniform against my knees.
“Because she was crying, Mr. Moretti,” I answered truthfully.
“She had sat in the cold for an hour, holding that veil like it was the most precious thing in the world.”
“She didn't ask for food, she didn't ask for a seat, and she didn't ask for money.”
“She just wanted to see her daughter smile.”
I looked up into his sharp, chiseled face, refusing to look away.
“My mother worked three jobs after my father died to keep a roof over my sister’s head.”
“I know what a mother’s sacrifice looks like.”
“And I knew that if I let Mrs. Lydia throw her out into the alley, I wouldn't be able to look at myself in the mirror tomorrow morning.”
Dominic did not speak for several long seconds.
His eyes lingered on my face, tracing the curve of my cheek and the determination in my posture.
A faint, profound softness touched the corners of his mouth.
“You risked your job, your sister’s tuition, and your safety for a woman you didn't even know,” Dominic whispered.
“I did what was right, sir.”
“In this house, Nora,” Dominic said, leaning forward until his shadow covered my hands, “people rarely do what is right.”
“They do what is profitable.”
He reached out, his large, warm hand gently lifting mine from the edge of the table.
His fingers were calloused, strong, and surprisingly tender against my trembling skin.
“You will never clean another bedroom in this estate, Nora Collins.”
My heart seized with immediate panic.
“Mr. Moretti, please! I need to pay my sister’s nursing fees—”
“You misunderstand me, Nora,” Dominic interrupted, his thumb gently smoothing over the back of my hand.
“You are not fired.”
“You are appointed as the executive administrator of the Moretti Family Charitable Trust.”
“Your salary will be triple what you earn today, and your sister’s tuition will be paid in full by the family foundation tonight.”
Tears instantly blurred my vision, hot and overwhelming.
“Dominic... I don't know what to say.”
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“Say you’ll stay by my side,” Dominic whispered, his eyes holding mine with an intensity that made the room spin.
“Because I have a feeling the war in this family has only just begun.”
