Chapter 13 - The True Matriarch Wakes
Two months passed like a dream.
The winter chill gave way to the pale green buds of spring.
The Castellano estate had been fully rebuilt.
The blackened south wing was replaced with a sun-drenched glass pavilion
overlooking the Atlantic, reinforced with steel that no bomb could penetrate.
On Sunday afternoons, the estate wasn't filled with politicians or cold-eyed
business partners anymore.
It was filled with the smell of roasted garlic, fresh basil, and bubbling
marinara.
Teresa sat at the head of the long outdoor table on the terrace.
She walked with a single cane now, her strength fully returned.
Beside her sat Caleb, his face smeared with tomato sauce, chattering animatedly
about his second-grade science project.
"And then the volcano exploded with vinegar, Grandma Teresa!"
Teresa laughed, spooning another meatball onto his plate.
"Just like Richie when he was seven years old! Always making a mess!"
Richard sat at the far end of the table, sipping an espresso, watching them with
an expression of absolute contentment.
I sat beside him.
My left hand was completely bare now.
Only a thin, faint silver line traced the skin beneath my thumb.
A reminder of the fire.
And the freedom that came after.
Richard reached beneath the white tablecloth.
His warm, strong fingers laced through mine.
He didn't squeeze hard.
He just held on.
"Penny for your thoughts?" he whispered.
"I was just thinking about where I was three months ago," I said softly, looking
out over the sparkling ocean.
"Counting pennies for bus fare. Hiding my hand behind my back. Wondering if we
would survive the winter."
Richard kissed my knuckles, his lips brushing over the silver scar.
"You will never have to hide your hands again, Naomi."
Teresa looked up from her plate, her sharp eyes taking in our joined hands.
A wide, knowing smile spread across her wrinkled face.
"Richie," she commanded.
Richard sat up straight.
"Yes, Ma?"
"Stop staring at the girl like a sick puppy and ask her properly. My hip is
eighty-one years old, and I want to dance at a wedding before I meet Saint
Peter."
Caleb giggled, clapping his hands.
Richard laughed, shaking his head.
He stood up from his chair.
He walked around the table and stopped beside me.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a simple, elegant platinum band set
with a flawless sapphire—the color of the deep, safe sea.
He dropped to one knee.
The king of New York’s waterfront.
Bowing before the woman who had scrubbed his floors.
"Naomi Fletcher," Richard said, his voice ringing clear and steady in the salt
air.
"You saved my family. Will you let me spend the rest of my life protecting
yours?"
I looked at Caleb, whose eyes were shining with excitement.
I looked at Teresa, who was dabbing a happy tear from her cheek.
And I looked into the steady, faithful slate eyes of the man before me.
May you like
"Yes," I whispered.
"Yes, Richard."
