Chapter 8 - The Interrogation in the StudyThree days later, the federal trials of the Bellini family dominated the front pages of every newspaper from New York to Los Angeles.
Inside the federal executive building on Dearborn Street, Assistant United States Attorney Marcus Vance signed the final forfeiture decrees, liquidating the Bellini commercial holdings and transferring sixty percent of the capital directly into the newly chartered Teresa Moretti Foundation for Stroke and Neurological Recovery.
The foundation immediately funded the complete renovation of the speech therapy and physical rehabilitation wings at Northwestern Memorial Hospital, ensuring that hundreds of elderly patients received free, world-class clinical care.
Back at the Moretti estate, Mrs. Carter and the senior household staff, who had once lived under Vanessa’s petty, vindictive cruelty, were given permanent employment contracts with full pension benefits, union wages, and comprehensive healthcare coverage.
One Saturday morning, Teresa and I sat in the restored conservatory overlooking the rose gardens.
The old woman was sitting at an antique mahogany writing desk, practicing her handwriting with a fine fountain pen.
Across the table sat Sophie, helping her grandmother write out the holiday dinner menu with a wide, proud grin.
“Look, Hannah!” Sophie beamed, holding up the parchment. “Grandma wrote ‘Roast Lamb with Rosemary’ without a single mistake!”
Teresa smiled—a brilliant, radiant smile that completely erased the lingering shadows of her eighteen-month nightmare.
“My hands... are steady, sweetheart,” Teresa said, her voice clear and melodic. “When you have honest people at your table, the words come easily.”
Footsteps sounded on the terrace.
Luca walked into the conservatory, wearing a casual charcoal cashmere sweater and dark trousers, looking relaxed, powerful, and breathtakingly handsome.
He walked straight to where I was standing, wrapping his arms around my waist from behind, pulling me gently against his solid, warm chest.
He buried his face into the crook of my neck, inhaling deeply.
“Vanilla, clean rain, and sweet rosemary,” he murmured against my skin, sending a delicious shiver down my spine. “The only scent I ever want to wake up to.”
I leaned back against him, looping my arms over his, smiling at the reflection of our family gathered in the sunlit greenhouse.
“The wedding invitations were mailed this morning, Luca,” I whispered.
“Five hundred guests,” Luca smiled against my cheek. “And this time, my mother is standing at the front of the aisle, holding my daughter’s hand, drinking the first toast herself.”
Teresa chuckled from the desk, nodding with satisfaction.
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“And I’ll be drinking the vintage Barolo, son. Not the poisoned tea.”
Laughter rippled through the conservatory, warm, bright, and completely devoid of shadows.
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