Chapter 11 - THE PROMISE TO A MOTHER
Three months later.
The snow was falling softly outside the windows of the penthouse, blanketing Chicago in a quiet, peaceful white.
I stood in the kitchen, drinking coffee. I wasn't wearing a maid’s uniform. I was wearing a cashmere sweater.
My foot had healed perfectly. The trust fund had been secured, legally transferred into my name. But I hadn’t bought a house on the coast.
I hadn’t left.
“Mommy, look!”
Lily ran into the kitchen. She was wearing a tiny ballet tutu over her leggings, twirling wildly across the hardwood floor.
Dominic walked in right behind her.
He was wearing a perfectly tailored charcoal suit, looking every inch the powerful, intimidating boss he was. But in his massive hands, he was holding a tiny pink plastic wand.
“The princess dropped her scepter,” Dominic announced seriously, kneeling down to hand it to her.
Lily giggled, taking the wand and bopping him on the nose. “Thank you, Dommy.”
He smiled—a warm, completely unguarded smile that was reserved only for us. He kissed the top of her blonde head. “Go get your coat, piccola. Daniel is waiting to take you to ballet class.”
Lily ran off toward the foyer.
Dominic stood up and walked over to me. He wrapped his arms around my waist from behind, pressing a soft kiss to the side of my neck.
“You spoil her,” I murmured, leaning back against his solid chest.
“She deserves it,” he replied easily.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. He ignored it.
The syndicate was changing under Dominic’s rule. He was aggressively moving their assets into legitimate real estate and shipping. The violence of his father’s era was fading. He was building an empire that could operate in the light.
“I have something for you,” Dominic said, stepping back and taking my hand.
“Dominic, you’ve given me enough. The trust, this home—”
“This isn’t money,” he interrupted gently.
He led me into his private study.
Sitting on his massive mahogany desk was a framed photograph.
I walked over to it.
It was a picture of my mother.
Not the tiny, faded photograph from Elena’s locket. This was a beautiful, professionally restored 8x10 portrait. She looked vibrant. Happy.
“I had my people track down the original photographer who took her company ID photo fifteen years ago,” Dominic explained softly, standing beside me. “They digitized the negatives and restored it.”
I picked up the heavy silver frame, tears immediately blurring my vision. I hadn’t seen my mother’s face this clearly in a decade.
“It’s beautiful,” I whispered, touching the glass.
Dominic reached into his jacket pocket.
“There’s one more thing,” he said, his voice suddenly sounding tight.
I turned around.
May you like
Dominic Valenti, the man who made senators nervous and criminal empires tremble, looked entirely vulnerable.
He was holding a small, velvet box.
