Chapter 13 - Cleaning House on Prairie Avenue
The following three weeks were a whirlwind of joyous celebration and new beginnings.
Under my direction, the Sullivan Foundation established an independent legal defense clinic on 18th Street in Pilsen—the very neighborhood where Marisol and I had once scraped together pennies for rent—providing free tenant defense, medical advocacy, and emergency financial relief for working-class families facing predatory debt collectors.
The domestic staff at the Prairie Avenue mansion were given permanent employment contracts with full pension benefits, union wages, and comprehensive healthcare coverage under the newly chartered Moretti Maritime Accord.
Mrs. Carter was promoted to Chief of Estate Administration, overseeing a fully staffed, respectful household where no worker was ever treated as an invisible servant.
One Saturday morning in April, I walked into the grand kitchen.
The mansion was warm, filled with the rich aromas of simmering cinnamon cider, roasting pecans, and fresh sourdough bread.
Mrs. Carter was kneading dough at the marble island with a wide, happy smile.
“Good morning, Miss Emma,” Mrs. Carter greeted me warmly, wiping flour from her hands. “The fresh strawberries arrived from the Michigan orchards this morning. Don Luca requested his mother’s favorite fruit tarts for afternoon tea.”
“I’ll help you prepare the berries, Mrs. Carter,” I smiled, reaching for an apron.
Mrs. Carter immediately caught my wrist with gentle firmness, tutting softly under her breath.
“You will do no such thing, young lady,” the old cook scolded affectionately. “The Donna of this house does not hull strawberries on a Saturday morning. You have a bridal gown fitting with the French designers in thirty minutes.”
I laughed, leaning down to kiss the old woman’s cheek. “You spoil me, Mrs. Carter.”
“You earned every bit of it, child,” she whispered, her eyes twinkling with happy tears. “Now go on. Don Luca is waiting for you in the rose garden.”
I walked out through the terrace doors into the estate’s private rose garden.
The gravel paths had been cleared of winter debris, and the early spring roses were blooming in vibrant crimson clusters beneath the morning light.
Luca stood by the marble fountain, holding the leash of a bounding, four-month-old golden retriever puppy that was joyfully chasing dry leaves across the grass.
When the puppy saw me, he let out a happy yip and bolted down the path, tumbling straight into my shins, wagging his tail furiously.
I knelt down, laughing as the puppy showered my face with enthusiastic, wet kisses.
Luca walked up, looking down at us with that rare, breathtaking smile that always made my heart race.
“Looks like Barnaby approves of his new mother,” Luca murmured, extending a hand to pull me up into his arms.
He buried his face into the crook of my neck, inhaling deeply.
“Vanilla, clean rain, and sweet roses,” he whispered against my skin. “The only scent I ever want to come home to.”
I wrapped my arms around his neck, smiling against his cheek.
“Mrs. Carter kicked me out of the kitchen again, Luca.”
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“Mrs. Carter is a very wise woman,” he chuckled, his hands resting naturally on my hips. “And she knows that your hands have far more important work to do.”
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