Chapter 5 - A Donna in the Rigging CoatMatteo nodded once.
He didn't raise his voice. He looked at Frank standing by the security gate.
"Take Miss Sterling and her father down to the holding cells beneath the naval drydock," Matteo commanded smoothly. "Strip their jewelry. Strip their furs. Let them sit on the cold concrete in the dark until the naval intelligence officers arrive with their treason indictments."
"No! Matteo! Please! I am a Sterling!" Victoria screamed, her hands clawing wildly at the wet timber, her Burmese rubies tearing away from the platinum wire as two armed operators hauled her backward by the arms. "You cannot treat me like a common laborer!"
Her shrill, hysterical cries echoed across the black water until the heavy steel security doors clicked shut, severing her voice from the harbor forever.
A heavy, solemn stillness settled over the pavilion.
Matteo turned away from the water.
He walked across the wet timber, stopping directly in front of Maeve where she stood beside her drafting table.
He reached out.
With infinite, breathtaking care, his large, calloused hands smoothed the lapels of his charcoal wool coat around her throat, carefully tucking a loose strand of dark hair behind her small ear.
The terrifying, murderous mask that had made sixty billionaires tremble in their boots melted away, replaced by an ocean of fierce, unshakeable devotion that belonged to her alone.
"Did those shears touch your skin, Maeve?" he asked softly, his rough baritone vibrating with a tenderness that made the surrounding rain feel gentle.
"No, Matteo," Maeve smiled, reaching out from the oversized sleeves to touch the rough stubble of his jawline. "The canvas took the cut. The hydrofoil is safe. And our harbor remains whole."
Matteo leaned down, his forehead resting gently against hers for a long, quiet second, inhaling the clean, familiar scent of graphite, cold salt water, and lavender soap.
He reached into his breast pocket and produced an antique rosewood jewel box lined with navy velvet.
He opened the lid.
Inside lay an exquisite, hand-crafted ring of solid platinum, set with a flawless, six-carat cushion-cut blue sapphire cradled by two delicate anchors carved from white gold—the historic engagement ring of his mother, Donna Maria De Luca, which had been locked in the family vault for twenty-five years, waiting for the woman whose courage matched the depth of the sea.
"For you, my Donna," Matteo whispered, lifting the heavy ring.
With steady, reverent fingers, he slid the platinum band onto her left finger.
The blue gem blazed with celestial fire against the charcoal wool of his coat, reflecting the launch floodlights overhead.
Don Marcus Falcone was the first to move.
The old capo raised his crystal glass of vintage port high into the winter air, bowing his silver head respectfully toward Maeve.
"To Donna Maeve," Falcone declared in his deep, resonant rasp. "The architect of our fleet! The sovereign of our water! Honor to the brave! Honor to the house of De Luca!"
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One by one, the sixty shipping magnates, port directors, and naval commanders stood from their chairs, raising their glasses in a synchronized, thunderous chorus that shook the timber pilings of the pier:
"To Donna Maeve! Long live the house of De Luca!"
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