Chapter 3 - The Clinic on Taylor StreetSilence returned to the grand dining hall, vast, clean, and terrifyingly pure.
The thirty-four syndicate commanders remained standing, their heads bowed in deep, solemn respect.
Luca turned his gaze away from the door.
He walked across the parquet floor, stopping directly in front of where Anna knelt on the Persian rug.
He didn't speak.
He dropped onto both knees directly into the spilled wine and shattered glass, his tailored trousers soaking up the red liquid, unconcerned with his suit, his reputation, or the thirty-four killers watching him.
He wrapped his massive arms around his older sister, pulling her tight against his chest.
Anna buried her face into his neck, sobbing with thirty years of unhealed agony, her thin, trembling frame shaking violently against his broad shoulder.
“I’m sorry, Anna,” Luca choked out, his voice cracking with raw, unvarnished grief. “Forgive me. I was sixteen years old... I believed her lies... I thought you left me alone.”
“You were just a boy, Luca,” Anna wept, her rough, work-worn hands clutching the back of his jacket. “You were just a boy trying to keep the wolves from tearing this house apart.”
Grace stepped forward from the service station, her eyes wide with tears, her small hand reaching out hesitantly.
Luca lifted his head.
He looked at his thirteen-year-old niece, then reached out with his left arm, drawing the young girl down into the embrace between them.
Grace pressed her face against Anna’s faded green dress, inhaling the clean, humble scent of lavender soap and rain.
“Mom...?” Grace whispered, testing the word as if it were a fragile bird resting on her tongue.
“I’m here, my sweet baby,” Anna sobbed, kissing her daughter’s dark curls over and over. “Mama is right here. I’m never leaving you again.”
I stood near the sideboard, tears streaming down my cheeks, holding my empty serving tray against my apron.
Luca slowly rose from the floor, helping Anna and Grace to their feet, keeping his arms securely around their shoulders.
He turned his dark, soulful gray eyes directly onto me.
He walked across the floorboards until he was standing two feet away.
“Emma Sullivan,” Luca said, his deep baritone carrying clearly to every soul in the vaulted room.
“Yes, Mr. Moretti?” I whispered, wiping a tear from my cheek.
“You retrieved that wooden box from the trash when my own aunt ordered you to step aside.”
“It was a gift from her heart, sir,” I answered softly. “Nobody deserves to have their love thrown away.”
Luca looked down at my worn service shoes, then up into my eyes with an intensity that took the breath straight out of my chest.
“In this house, Emma,” Luca murmured, his voice thick with profound, unwavering sincerity, “courage is paid in gold, and loyalty is answered with life. You will never clean a dining room in this city again.”
He looked toward his chief lieutenant standing near the archway.
“Daniel.”
“Yes, boss.”
“Call the Cook County Recorder of Deeds. The Sullivan home on 35th Street in Bridgeport is transferred into the name of Emma Sullivan’s mother tonight, paid in full in perpetuity. And fund Emma’s personal account with two hundred thousand dollars as an executive retainer.”
My knees gave out. A gasp of pure, disbelieving shock tore from my throat, and I would have hit the floor if Luca’s large, calloused hand hadn't caught my wrist, steadying me with effortless strength.
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“Mr. Moretti... no... that's my mother's entire mortgage!” I wept. “I cannot accept that!”
“You gave me my sister back, Emma,” Luca whispered, his thumb gently smoothing over the back of my hand. “You gave my niece her mother back. My family owes you a debt that forty million dollars could never settle.”
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