Chapter 15 - The True Sovereign Donna of Chicago
Later that evening, after the grand feast had wound down into soft acoustic music, clinking crystal, and lively laughter, Rafael and I stood together on the private master terrace of our Prairie Avenue mansion.
A gentle winter breeze rustled the sheer curtains behind us, carrying the clean, crisp scent of lake water and the distant twinkling lights of the Chicago skyline below.
Inside the softly lit salon, Teresa was sitting by the fire, holding a sleeping Ben in her arms, softly singing an ancient lullaby as our little boy slept soundly against her chest.
Rafael held me close, his arm wrapped securely around my shoulders, his chin resting gently against my hair.
My fingers traced the twin copper sparrow medallions hanging against my chest, the polished metal catching the silver glow of the Midwestern moon.
“Are you cold, Chiara?” Rafael whispered into my ear.
I leaned back against the broad, solid warmth of his chest, smiling up at the starlit sky, feeling the steady, rhythmic beat of his heart against my shoulder.
I thought of the cold banquet floor, the shattered champagne flute, the six notes hummed to a weeping child, and the moment a man with dark eyes had looked at his shattered glass and asked who taught me that song.
“Not anymore, Rafael,” I whispered back, turning in his arms to cup his rugged face in my hands. “Tonight, the storm has finally left our sky.”
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He smiled—the soft, peaceful smile of a sovereign whose wars were won and whose soul was finally whole—and held his sister beneath the Chicago stars.
THE END
