The Forged Signature On The Boarding School Deposit

Six months passed.

The Chicago winter arrived, burying the sprawling Moretti estate under a thick blanket of pristine white snow.

Life had completely transformed.

I no longer wore a black apron. I wore tailored trousers and cashmere sweaters. I ran the Sarah Moretti Foundation from a beautiful, sunlit office in the west wing of the mansion.

My mother had moved into the cozy guest cottage near the gardens. She was receiving the best medical care money could buy, and her health was improving every day.

And Matteo? Matteo was thriving.

He had started high school. He laughed constantly. He spent hours in my office after school, doing his homework while I reviewed grant proposals.

But the biggest change was the man who owned the house.

Luca had systematically dismantled the violent arms of his syndicate. He was shifting his empire entirely into legitimate real estate and logistics. He was home for dinner every single night.

And every single night, I sat in the chair to his right.

It was late Friday evening. The house was quiet.

I was standing on the second-floor balcony, watching the snow fall over the gardens. The air was freezing, biting through my thin blouse, but the peaceful silence was intoxicating.

I heard the balcony doors open behind me.

Warmth enveloped me before I even turned around.

Luca stepped up behind me and draped a heavy, incredibly soft wool winter coat over my shivering shoulders.

I pulled the lapels closed, breathing in the scent of his cologne lingering on the fabric.

“You’re going to freeze to death out here, Claire,” Luca murmured, stepping up beside me to look out at the snow.

“I was just enjoying the quiet,” I smiled, looking up at him.

He looked down at me. His dark eyes were soft, reflecting the dim light from the house.

Over the last six months, our relationship had evolved into a deep, unshakable partnership. We managed the house together. We raised Matteo together.

But the physical boundary between us had remained strictly, carefully platonic.

Until tonight.

Luca didn’t pull his hands away after adjusting the coat on my shoulders. His fingers lingered on my arms, his thumbs gently stroking the heavy wool.

The air between us suddenly felt charged, heavy, and undeniable.

“The foundation’s annual report was brilliant,” Luca said softly, his voice a low rumble.

“Thank you. We funded three new children’s hospitals this quarter.”

“I know.” He stepped slightly closer. The heat radiating from his chest chased away the winter cold entirely. “I also know that you’ve been working until midnight every day this week.”

“I want everything to be perfect.”

“You are perfect,” Luca whispered.

My heart did a violent flip in my chest.

I looked up at him. The protective distance he usually kept was gone. The raw, unguarded hunger in his eyes made my breath catch in my throat.

“Luca…”

He gently lifted a hand, brushing a snowflake from my eyelashes. His bare skin against my cold cheek sent a shiver down my spine that had nothing to do with the weather.

“I told myself I would give you time,” Luca confessed, his voice barely audible over the wind. “I told myself I wouldn’t overwhelm you. You needed to establish your career. You needed to secure your mother’s health.”

He leaned in, his forehead resting gently against mine.

“But I am a very impatient man, Claire.”

I closed my eyes, leaning into his touch. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying I have two tickets to Italy in my desk drawer,” Luca breathed, his lips brushing against my temple. “For you and your mother. A two-week vacation in Tuscany. Because you deserve to see the world you’re trying to save.”

He pulled back just enough to look into my eyes.

“And I’m hoping,” Luca added, “that you’ll let me come with you.”

Before I could answer, the balcony doors burst open again.

“Dad! Claire!”

We jumped apart just as Matteo ran out onto the snow-dusted balcony.

The teenager was grinning from ear to ear, holding a piece of heavy cardstock in his hand.

“Look what arrived for the Christmas gala!” Matteo beamed.

He handed me the card.

It was a proof for the formal seating arrangements for the foundation’s upcoming holiday charity dinner.

I looked at the beautiful calligraphy.

At the head table, next to Luca Moretti and Matteo Moretti, was a third card.

It didn’t say Claire Dawson.