Chapter 7 - THE CLEANSING OF THE HOUSE
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The removal of Lydia Moretti from the grand ballroom was swift, quiet, and absolute.
Two Moretti soldiers lifted the weeping woman by her arms, dragging her through the service corridor into the rainy night.
Her diamond necklace snapped against the doorframe, scattering fifty glittering stones across the floor like frozen tears.
Nobody bent down to pick them up.
The forty-six guests departed within ten minutes, leaving their gifts and untouched cake behind in solemn, respectful silence.
They knew that the Moretti family had undergone a seismic transformation in less than two hours.
By three in the morning, the ballroom was empty, the crystal chandeliers turned off, leaving only the soft glow of wall sconces.
A commercial cleaning crew was rolling up the champagne-soaked carpets, while two carpenters removed Lydia’s portrait from the grand gallery.
Upstairs in the private family suites, a deep, healing peace had settled over the mansion.
Margaret Ellis sat in an overstuffed armchair beside the fire in the guest parlor, wearing a soft wool robe Mrs. Higgins had brought her.
Rose sat on the floor with her head resting on her mother’s lap, their hands clasped together in an unbroken circle of love.
For the first time in twenty-four years, the mother and daughter were talking about Arthur Ellis.
They were talking about his laugh, his crooked smile, and the little wooden music box he had carved before he died.
I stood in the doorway of the parlor, holding a tray of warm milk and honey, hesitating to disturb their sacred reunion.
Rose looked up, catching my eye, and offered a radiant, tearful smile.
“Bring it in, Nora,” Rose called out softly.
I walked over, setting the silver tray on the low table beside them.
Margaret reached up, taking my hand in both of hers, her skin warm and soft against my fingers.
“You gave me my life back tonight, Nora,” Margaret whispered, her dark eyes shining with profound emotion.
“God sent you to that bench in the alley.”
“God sent you with that veil, Mrs. Ellis,” I replied with a warm smile.
“It was your love that brought you through the door.”
A set of heavy, unhurried footsteps sounded in the hallway behind me.
Dominic walked into the parlor, wearing dark trousers and a simple black crewneck sweater, his dark hair ruffled from running his hands through it.
He looked tired, but the grim, suffocating tension that had defined his features for years had completely vanished.
He walked over to the fireplace, leaning his arm against the mantel, looking down at his cousin and her mother.
“The Western Avenue accounts were frozen by federal court order twenty minutes ago,” Dominic reported gently.
“The title deeds will be transferred into your joint names by noon tomorrow.”
“You are free, Rose.”
“And you are home, Margaret.”
Rose stood up, walking over to her cousin, and threw her arms around Dominic’s broad shoulders.
She hugged him with all the fierce, grateful love of a sister.
“Thank you, Dominic,” Rose sobbed against his neck.
“Thank you for believing in the truth.”
Dominic hugged her back, kissing the crown of her dark hair with protective, brotherly affection.
“The Morettis don't build empires on stolen children, Rose,” Dominic murmured softly.
“Never again.”
Rose pulled back, wiping her eyes, and looked between Dominic and me with a knowing, gentle smile.
“Mom is tired, Dominic,” Rose said softly, taking Margaret’s arm to help her toward the adjoining bedroom.
“We are going to sleep.”
“Goodnight, Rosie. Goodnight, Margaret,” Dominic said.
The bedroom door closed softly, leaving Dominic and me alone in the quiet parlor before the dying fire.
The room smelled of cedarwood, beeswax, and the fresh rain tapping against the tall French doors.
May you like
Dominic turned his gaze toward me, his dark gray eyes holding mine with an intensity that made my heart race against my ribs.
“Walk with me to the terrace, Nora,” he whispered.
