Chapter 7 - Protecting the Heir
The storm finally broke over Lake Michigan around four in the morning. Thunder rumbled like distant artillery, and sheets of rain lashed against the arched windows of the second-floor library.
Inside, the room was warm. A fire crackled in the hearth, illuminating the room where Emily lay curled under a thick cashmere blanket on the oversized sofa, her head resting on Michael’s lap. Michael was gently stroking her hair, his eyes heavy with exhaustion, but he refused to sleep.
I sat at the small writing desk nearby, organizing the medical files and personal documents that Michael had retrieved from Emily's house.
The heavy doors clicked open, and Luca walked in.
He looked different now. The smell of gunsmoke was gone; he had showered and changed into comfortable dark slacks and an emerald-green cashmere sweater. He looked ten years younger, though deep lines of fatigue were etched around his eyes.
Emily stirred, blinking open her eyes. "Dad?"
Luca smiled softly, walking over to kneel beside the sofa. "How is my grandson doing?"
A radiant, tired smile broke across Emily’s face. She reached beneath the blanket, took Luca’s large hand, and guided it gently to the right side of her belly.
For a few seconds, nothing happened. Then, Luca’s eyes widened in genuine wonder.
"Did you feel that?" he whispered, his voice cracking with emotion.
"He kicks every time he hears your voice," Emily laughed softly through tears. "He knows who you are."
Luca stayed kneeling there on the hard floor, his hand resting over his unborn grandchild, his head bowed. A single tear slipped down his cheek, disappearing into the dark stubble of his beard. The most dangerous man in Illinois was completely undone by a four-ounce heartbeat beneath his palm.
"I’m sorry, Emily," Luca murmured. "I’m so sorry I wasn't there for the first five months. I’m sorry I let that woman poison my home."
"You're here now, Dad," Emily said, cupping his face in her hands. "That's all that matters. You came for us."
Luca looked up at Michael. "Michael. Come here."
Michael hesitated for a second, then shifted forward on the sofa.
Luca reached out his other hand, clasping Michael’s shoulder in a firm, paternal grip. "You stayed at that house when you knew killers were coming. You stood in front of my daughter with a piece of wood. In my world, loyalty like that is rarer than gold."
"I don't care about your world, Luca," Michael replied honestly, meeting the older man's gaze. "I care about Emily. And I care about our baby."
"That is why you are going to survive in mine," Luca replied. "Tomorrow morning, my legal team will file the paperwork. The house on Maple Street will be fully restored, renovated, and put into an irrevocable trust for Emily and the baby, along with an independent security detail funded in perpetuity. But I have another request."
Emily sat up slightly. "What request, Dad?"
Luca stood up, walking over to the fireplace. He looked at the mantelpiece, where a silver-framed photograph of Sofia sat between two bronze candlesticks.
"I bought a crib last month," Luca said softly. "It’s made of solid cherry wood, hand-carved in Vermont. It’s sitting in the master nursery on the third floor of this house." He turned back to them, looking vulnerable in a way no capo had ever seen him. "When the baby is born... I want you to spend the summers here. I want this house to hear laughter again. I want Sofia's grandson to grow up knowing the lake she loved."
Emily’s eyes flooded with fresh tears. She reached out and grasped Michael’s hand, seeking his approval.
Michael smiled, nodding gently. "We'd love that, Luca."
Luca exhaled a long breath, as if a boulder had been lifted from his chest. Then, his eyes moved across the room, settling on me.
"Claire," he said.
I stood up from the desk. "Yes, Mr. Moretti?"
"Come here."
I walked over to the hearth, feeling small beside the towering patriarch.
Luca reached into his pocket and pulled out a heavy brass key—not the one to Sofia’s locker, but an ornamental key attached to a leather tag marked *Lakeside Cottage*.
"You told Emily earlier that an elderly neighbor once saved your mother’s home," Luca said, his voice quiet and resonant.
I blinked, surprised that he had heard.
"I own four residential properties on the north ridge overlooking the bluffs," Luca continued. "One of them is a three-bedroom craftsman cottage. My mother lived there before she passed. It has a garden, low taxes that are paid for the next fifty years, and it is deeded as of two hours ago to Claire Dawson and her mother."
My breath caught in my throat. The room seemed to tilt. "Mr. Moretti... no. I can't accept that. That's... that's too much. I only did what was right—"
"What is right is rarely rewarded in this life, Claire," Luca interrupted firmly, taking my hand and closing my fingers over the heavy brass key. "You could have taken Vanessa’s bribe. You could have saved your job and looked the other way while my family was torn apart. Instead, you marched my daughter into that dining room and gave me back my life. You will never worry about a paycheck again. You will never worry about your mother’s roof again. You are under the protection of the Moretti name for the rest of your days."
Tears spilled over my lashes, hot and overwhelming. I looked down at the key, thinking of my mother’s tired hands, thinking of the debt that had haunted us for four years, now vanished like smoke.
"Thank you, Mr. Moretti," I choked out. "Thank you."
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"Call me Luca," he said with a faint, warm smile. "We are going to be seeing a lot of each other."
***
