Chapter 6 - THE SANCTUARY OF THE HEIR
|
The eastern wing of the Moretti estate was the private sanctuary of the bloodline, sealed behind ten-inch reinforced mahogany doors.
By two in the morning, the chaos of the ruined engagement dinner had been scrubbed from the lower levels.
Fifty high-society guests had been dismissed into the rainy night under strict non-disclosure oaths enforced by Luca’s soldiers.
Upstairs in the master suite, a roaring fire crackled in the massive limestone hearth, casting a warm amber glow across the room.
Oliver sat in the center of the vast king-sized bed, wearing clean flannel pajamas, his mother’s navy sweater draped carefully over the pillows behind him.
He was eating warm tomato soup from a silver bowl, while I sat beside him on the edge of the mattress, holding a napkin.
The quiet in the room was profound, broken only by the crackle of burning birch logs.
The heavy bedroom door opened with a soft, muted click.
Luca stepped inside, wearing a fresh charcoal cashmere sweater and dark trousers, his hair damp from a hurried shower.
The scent of cedarwood, rain, and fresh soap clung to him, completely washing away the smell of the damp cellar below.
When Oliver saw his father, a small, genuine smile touched the corners of his lips for the first time in two years.
“Daddy,” Oliver called out softly.
Luca crossed the room in three long strides, kicking off his shoes before climbing onto the mattress beside his son.
He pulled Oliver into his lap, wrapping his massive, protective arms around the boy’s frail frame, resting his chin on Oliver’s dark curls.
“How’s the soup, buddy?” Luca asked, his voice thick with raw, tender emotion.
“Emily made it with the little crackers,” Oliver whispered, leaning back against his father’s chest with complete trust.
“She makes the soup just like Mommy used to.”
Luca looked up from his son’s hair, his dark gray eyes meeting mine in the firelight.
The intensity in his gaze made my breath catch in my throat.
“Did you know my wife, Emily?” Luca asked quietly.
I shook my head, smoothing my hands over my black housekeeping apron.
“No, Mr. Moretti,” I replied honestly.
“I started working here eight months ago, long after Mrs. Moretti had passed.”
“Then how did you know about the sweater?”
I looked at the navy wool with the crooked white star resting on the silk pillows.
“Oliver showed it to me three months ago,” I explained softly.
“He had hidden it beneath the floorboards in his closet because he was afraid Miss Bellini would throw it in the trash.”
“He was crying because the left sleeve had been torn during the accident.”
“I brought my sewing kit up from the staff quarters and spent three evenings repairing the seams with dark blue silk thread.”
Luca reached out with his right hand, picking up the sleeve of the sweater and examining the delicate, invisible stitches.
He swallowed hard, his throat working to hold back the tears that threatened to spill over his lashes.
“You repaired this?” Luca whispered.
“Yes, sir,” I said, looking down at my lap.
“Oliver told me that as long as he had the star, his mother would never be lost.”
“I couldn't let him lose that.”
Luca did not speak for a long moment.
He simply stared at the stitching, then looked at me as if he were seeing an angel who had descended into a den of wolves.
He shifted Oliver gently onto the bed, pulled the down comforter up to his son’s chest, and waited until the boy’s eyelids grew heavy.
Within ten minutes, exhausted from the terror and revelation of the evening, Oliver was sleeping deeply, his breathing rhythmic and peaceful.
Luca quietly stood up from the bed, gesturing toward the adjoining private sitting room.
“Walk with me, Emily,” he murmured.
I followed him into the dimly lit sitting room, where French doors looked out over the rain-swept gardens below.
Luca closed the bedroom door halfway to give Oliver quiet, then turned to face me completely.
He reached out, his large, warm hands gently untying the cotton strings of my white maid’s apron from behind my waist.
His fingers brushed against my lower back, sending an unexpected, electric shiver racing down my spine.
He pulled the apron free, folding it in his hands, and tossed it onto the leather armchair.
“You are never wearing this uniform again, Emily,” Luca said, his voice dropping into a low, commanding register that made my heart hammer.
“Mr. Moretti... I need my job,” I whispered, panic suddenly flaring in my chest.
“My mother’s mortgage—”
“Your mother’s mortgage was paid in full forty minutes ago,” Luca interrupted, taking a half-step closer.
“Her bank received a wire transfer from my private holding company for two hundred and forty thousand dollars.”
My mouth fell open, the breath leaving my lungs in a sharp, disbelieving gasp.
“What?!”
“You protected my son when I was too blind to see the danger under my own roof,” Luca said softly, his dark eyes locking onto mine.
“You gave him his voice back.”
“You repaired the only memory he had left of his mother.”
He stepped closer, his tall, powerful body towering over me, his hands reaching out to cup my trembling face.
His thumbs brushed gently across my cheekbones, his touch filled with a reverent, fierce warmth that made my knees weak.
“No amount of money could ever repay what you did tonight, Emily,” Luca whispered.
May you like
“From this night forward, you are not a servant in this house.”
“You are Oliver’s guardian, and my family.”
