Chapter 8 - Secrets of the Moretti Legacy
|
Midnight wrapped the Moretti estate in a blanket of heavy silver mist rising from the nearby lake.
The grandfather clock in the long second-floor gallery chimed twelve times, its brass pendulum swinging in hypnotic rhythm.
Meline could not sleep; the memory of Alessandro’s eyes in the conservatory kept her heart racing in the dark.
She pulled on her thick woolen dressing gown, took her grandfather’s brass pocket watch from the nightstand, and stepped out into the hallway.
She intended to fetch a glass of warm milk from the lower kitchen, but a faint golden light spilling from the open library door caught her attention.
Inside, Giovanni sat near the roaring hearth, an old leather photo album resting across his knees.
“Can’t sleep either, little bird?” the old man called out softly without turning his head.
Meline paused at the threshold, holding her collar closed.
“I didn't mean to disturb you, Giovanni,” she replied apologetically.
“You never disturb me, child,” he said, waving a hand toward the deep velvet armchair beside him.
“Come sit by the fire. The damp air makes these old bones ache, and company is the best medicine.”
Meline walked into the library, sinking into the plush armchair, the warmth of the dancing flames soothing her tired muscles.
She glanced down at the open album on Giovanni’s lap, noticing a black-and-white photograph of a young woman with a round, cheerful face and kind eyes.
The woman in the picture was not tall or slender like the socialites of Lake Shore Drive; she had soft, generous curves, thick dark hair, and a radiant, disarming smile.
“That was my Rosa,” Giovanni whispered, his fingers lightly tracing the worn edges of the photograph.
“Fifty-two years we were married, from the time we had only two rooms over a butcher shop on Taylor Street.”
“She was beautiful,” Meline said softly, touched by the profound reverence in the old man’s voice.
“She was an angel who walked among wolves,” Giovanni said, staring into the flames.
“When I was building our shipping business, thirty rival families tried to buy me, threaten me, or break me.”
“Every high-society don told me I needed a trophy wife from an aristocratic family to secure our social standing.”
“They called Rosa a peasant woman because she had flour on her hands and didn't care about French silk gowns.”
He looked across the hearth at Meline, his eyes shining with ancient, unshakeable wisdom.
“Rosa fed every dockworker who was laid off during the winter strikes.”
“She paid the hospital bills for the neighborhood widows out of her own grocery budget.”
“She taught Alessandro that a real man protects the vulnerable and despises the proud.”
He closed the album gently, resting both hands on the cracked leather cover.
“When Alessandro looked at you at that dining table yesterday, Meline, he didn't see an employee.”
“He saw the same fire, the same dignity, and the same golden heart that his mother possessed.”
Meline lowered her gaze, her cheeks growing warm with a mixture of humility and sudden, overwhelming fear.
“Giovanni, I am a poor girl from the West Side whose grandfather died owing money to medical clinics,” she confessed, her voice trembling.
“The world Alessandro lives in would tear someone like me to pieces.”
“The world doesn't matter, child,” a deep, commanding voice spoke from the shadows of the library doorway.
Meline jumped slightly, turning her head to see Alessandro standing in the archway, dressed in a simple charcoal sweater and dark trousers.
He walked into the circle of firelight, his dark hair slightly ruffled, looking more human and approachable than she had ever seen him.
“My father is right, Meline,” Alessandro said, stopping beside her chair and looking down into her earnest face.
“I have spent ten years ruling a kingdom of stone and mirrors where nobody tells the truth.”
May you like
“You brought warmth back into these halls the second you picked up that bowl of soup.”
“And as long as I draw breath, no one in this city will ever make you feel small again.”
