Chapter 15 - The Sovereign Donna of the Docks
Later that evening, after the grand reception at the Drake Hotel had wound down into soft jazz music, clinking crystal, and lively laughter, Lorenzo and Clara stood together on the private master terrace of their penthouse overlooking Lake Michigan.
A gentle summer breeze rustled the sheer curtains behind them, carrying the clean, crisp scent of lake water and the distant twinkling lights of the harbor below.
Inside the softly lit salon, Teresa was sitting by the fire, talking with Thomas Thorne, softly laughing as they recalled old stories of the 1999 docks.
Lorenzo held Clara from behind, his arms wrapped securely around her waist, his chin resting gently on her shoulder.
Her left hand rested over his, the platinum and sapphire rings catching the silver glow of the Midwestern moon.
"Are you tired, Donna Clara?" Lorenzo whispered into her ear.
Clara 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 her shoulder blades.
She thought of the cold travertine lobby floor, the rattling steam wand, the four-million-dollar retaining wall, and the moment a man with dark gray eyes had leaned across the granite counter and demanded to know who approved that chair.
"Not anymore, Lorenzo," Clara whispered back, turning in his arms to cup his rugged, handsome face in her hands. "Tonight, I’m finally home."
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He smiled—the soft, peaceful smile of a sovereign whose wars were won and whose soul was finally whole—and kissed his wife beneath the Chicago stars.
THE END
