Chapter 13 - Cleaning House on Royal Street
The following three weeks were a whirlwind of joyous celebration and complete revitalization.
Under my direction, the historic Moretti estate in the Garden District was opened to the public for the first time in forty years, hosting weekly charity garden tours and community art workshops to benefit pediatric pulmonary research and vocational trade schools.
The domestic staff at the mansion, who had once lived in fear of arbitrary dismissals under Vanessa Bellini, were given permanent employment contracts with full pension benefits, union wages, and comprehensive healthcare coverage under the newly chartered Moretti Trust.
Mrs. Gable was promoted to Executive Director of Household Operations, overseeing a fully staffed, respectful estate where no worker was ever treated as an invisible servant.
One Saturday morning in December, I walked into the grand kitchen.
The mansion was warm, filled with the rich aromas of simmering chicory coffee, roasting pecans, and fresh sourdough bread.
My mother Clara was sitting at the breakfast island in an elegant wool cardigan, drinking tea and laughing heartily with Marco as they discussed digital security firewalls for the harbor terminals.
“Good morning, Donna Elena,” my mother teased with a playful wink as I walked in.
“Don't you start, Mom,” I laughed, swatting her shoulder with a linen towel before kissing her cheek. “You’re an artist now; you have canvases to stretch.”
“I’m off duty until Monday, sweetheart,” she grinned, taking a bite of warm pastry. “And Don Luca said I’m allowed to paint all the magnolias I want.”
Footsteps echoed softly from the hallway.
Luca walked into the kitchen, wearing a casual charcoal cashmere sweater and dark trousers, looking relaxed, powerful, and breathtakingly handsome.
He walked straight to where I was standing, wrapping his arms around my waist from behind, pulling me gently against his solid, warm chest.
He buried his face into the crook of my neck, inhaling deeply.
“Vanilla, clean rain, and sweet bread,” he murmured against my skin, sending a delicious shiver down my spine. “The only scent I ever want to wake up to.”
I leaned back against him, looping my arms over his, smiling at the reflection of our family gathered in the sunlit kitchen.
“The wedding invitations were mailed this morning, Luca,” I whispered.
“Five hundred guests,” Luca smiled against my cheek. “And this time, your mother is standing at the front of the aisle, holding the bouquet herself.”
Mrs. Gable chuckled from the island, nodding with immense satisfaction.
“And nobody is serving coffee on a broken hand, sir. Not in this house.”
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Laughter rippled through the kitchen, warm, bright, and completely devoid of shadows.
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