Chapter 7 - A Scent of Scorched Linen and Lavender
By 2:00 AM, the last of the syndicate capos had departed under heavy armed escort, having signed emergency covenants recognizing my sixty-percent ownership of the DeLuca Maritime Logistics Trust without a single objection.
In the private master sitting room on the second floor, a massive fire of split hickory crackled in the limestone hearth, driving away the cold autumn draft blowing off Lake Michigan.
Little Ben had fallen into a deep, peaceful sleep on the velvet chaise lounge beneath a plush cashmere duvet, clutching a wooden toy sailboat that Rafael had carved for him.
Teresa Bellini sat in an armchair beside the hearth, sipping warm chamomile tea, holding Evelyn Carter’s old wooden sewing box on her lap.
I sat on the deep sofa, wrapped in a warm wool shawl, looking through the faded black-and-white photographs that Evelyn had kept hidden between the false bottom of the box for twenty-nine years.
There was a picture of my mother, Maria DeLuca, holding me on the terrace of the Lake Forest estate three days before the fire.
She had my dark eyes, my wide smile, and the same quiet, stubborn tilt of the chin.
The double mahogany doors swung open softly.
Rafael walked into the room, holding two porcelain mugs of hot spiced cider.
He sat beside me on the sofa, setting the mugs on the low cherrywood table, his shoulder resting warm and solid against mine.
“Look at her, Rafael,” I whispered, handing him the photograph of our mother.
Rafael looked down at the faded print, his fingers trembling faintly as he traced Maria’s face.
“She loved the garden in the autumn, Chiara,” he murmured softly, his baritone thick with profound emotion. “She used to plant lavender along the brick walkways so the scent would drift into the nursery windows.”
He looked at the copper sparrow medallion resting against my silk dress.
“When she wrote that lullaby, she told me that a sparrow is the smallest bird in the forest, but it can fly through any storm because its wings are lighter than the rain.”
I leaned my head against his broad shoulder, closing my eyes, feeling the steady, rhythmic beat of his heart against my cheek.
“Evelyn told me the same thing every night before I went to sleep,” I smiled through my tears. “She said that no matter how dark the room was, the storm would always leave the sky.”
Rafael reached out, wrapping his strong arm around my shoulders, pulling me gently against his side.
May you like
“The storm is over, Chiara,” he whispered into my hair. “You are never going back to the dark.”
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