Chapter 14 - Ashes of the Romano Syndicate
Three weeks passed like a golden dream.
The Lake Geneva retreat had worked miracles on my parents. When they returned to
Chicago, my father had gained fifteen pounds, the color in his face was vibrant,
and his hands were as steady as stone.
The grand reopening of Morgan & Daughter Engraving on Grand Avenue took place on
a crisp, sunlit Saturday morning in early spring.
The old brick building had been completely restored. The charred timbers had
been replaced with rich, warm cedar. The front windows were made of spotless,
modern display glass, crowned by a hand-carved wooden sign featuring a single
silver swallow in mid-flight.
A crowd of neighborhood locals, former clients, and city craftsmen lined the
sidewalk, applauding as my father and I cut the red silk ribbon with a pair of
antique brass shears.
Inside, the workshop smelled of fresh sawdust, polishing rouge, and hot beeswax.
My old wooden stool sat right where it belonged—beside the master workbench
beneath the northern skylight.
At noon, after the well-wishers had enjoyed pastries and espresso, the bell
above the shop door jingled.
Adrian stepped inside, holding a bouquet of fresh white lilies and yellow roses.
He had traded his armored motorcades for a discreet sedan, walking into the shop
without security guards, looking like a man who was simply visiting the people
he loved.
He set the flowers on the front counter, leaning down to kiss my mother’s cheek.
“Elena. You look radiant.”
“Flattery will get you an extra cannoli, Adrian,” my mother laughed, bustling
toward the back kitchenette.
My father looked up from his workbench, a magnifying loupe strapped over his
right eye. “Adrian. Did you bring the pocket watch?”
Adrian reached into his vest, pulling out an antique Patek Philippe gold pocket
watch that had belonged to his father. “The mainspring is sticking, Thomas.”
“Set it on the bench,” my father said with a grin. “My master apprentice will
take care of it.”
Adrian turned to me, leaning against the counter, his gray eyes dancing with
amusement. “Is that so, Miss Morgan? Are you taking private commissions?”
“Depends on the client,” I teased, crossing my arms over my dark denim work
apron. “My rates are notoriously high for private security moguls.”
“Name your price,” Adrian said softly, stepping closer until his scent of cedar
and clean rain filled my senses.
“Dinner,” I whispered, looking up into his eyes. “Tonight. At that little diner
on Western Avenue where nobody wears diamonds.”
Adrian’s eyes softened with genuine tenderness. “It’s a deal.”
Later that afternoon, after my parents had left to walk through the neighborhood
park, Adrian and I stood together by the large northern window of the shop.
The afternoon sun poured through the glass, warming our faces.
On the workbench behind us, resting on a velvet pad, lay the Master Swallow
brooch.
Adrian reached out, taking my left hand in his. His thumb caressed the empty
ring finger of my hand.
“Claire,” he said, his voice dropping into a serious, tender register.
I turned to look at him, my breath catching slightly.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small platinum band.
It wasn't a commercial diamond ring. It was a custom, hand-forged platinum band,
intricately carved around its circumference with the delicate, interlocking
feathers of two swallows in flight.
“Your father helped me carve it last week at the retreat,” Adrian confessed, a
nervous, vulnerable edge in his voice that made my heart ache with love. “He
said his apprentice would know if the cut was off by a fraction of a
millimeter.”
Tears welled up in my eyes. “Adrian...”
“I spent my life surrounded by walls, bodyguards, and weapons, Claire,” Adrian
said, looking deeply into my eyes. “I thought power was the only thing that
could keep me safe. But when you stood in that ballroom, accused by the whole
world, and held that silver bird in your trembling hands... you showed me what
real strength looks like.”
He knelt down on one knee against the polished hardwood floorboards of my
father’s shop.
“Claire Morgan. Will you marry me?”
I didn't hesitate for a single second.
“Yes,” I cried, dropping to my knees beside him, throwing my arms around his
neck. “Yes, Adrian. A thousand times yes.”
He slid the platinum band onto my finger. It fit with absolute, seamless
perfection—as if the metal had known my hand since the dawn of time.
May you like
He pulled me into a fierce, breathless kiss, the sunlight wrapping around us
like gold.
