Chapter 10 - THE PANCAKE PROMISE
Two weeks had passed since the night Arthur Bellini was arrested in the hallway of St. Anthony’s. The Chicago newspapers had called it the fall of an empire, printing front-page photographs of Vanessa Bellini hiding her face behind a silk scarf as federal marshals led her out of the county courthouse.
In the Moretti mansion, however, the silence was no longer heavy. It was peaceful.
It was Sunday morning. The autumn leaves outside the kitchen windows were glowing orange and gold in the crisp November air. The smell of frying batter and vanilla filled the vast chef’s kitchen, accompanied by the frantic clattering of a metal spatula.
“Dad, you’re flipping it too early!” Leo cried, standing on a sturdy wooden stepstool beside the marble island. He wore an oversized white chef’s hat that kept falling over his eyebrows and a blue apron smeared with flour.
“I am not flipping it too early,” Luca insisted, wielding the spatula like a battle axe. He was wearing an old gray heather sweatshirt with the sleeves pushed up to his forearms, looking completely unrecognizable from the fearsome mob boss who terrified city council members. “It’s golden brown on the edge. See?”
“It’s liquid in the middle!” Leo giggled, looking over at me where I sat at the island counter sipping freshly brewed coffee. “Claire, tell him! He’s going to make a batter soup again!”
“He’s right, Mr. Moretti,” I smiled, resting my chin on my palm. “You have to wait for the bubbles in the center to pop. If you flip before the bubbles pop, you get a mess.”
Luca paused, his spatula hovering inches above the skillet. He looked at the pancake, then looked at Leo, and finally turned his dark, laughing eyes toward me. “Are you two ganging up on me in my own kitchen?”
“Always,” Leo declared proudly, crossing his flour-dusted arms.
Luca chuckled, lowering the heat on the commercial burner. “Fine. The executive director of the foundation outranks the master of the house. We wait for the bubbles.”
I looked down at the coffee mug in my hands, a warm flutter blooming in my chest. Over the last fourteen days, my life had transformed completely.
Luca had kept every single word he spoke that morning. My mother had been moved to the premier private suite at St. Anthony’s, with around-the-clock specialized physical therapy paid for through an untouchable medical annuity. Her remaining mortgage had been paid off in full by Luca’s private trust.
When I tried to argue that it was too much, Luca had simply handed me the keys to the newly refurbished corner office at the foundation’s headquarters downtown. *‘You gave my son his mother’s memory back, Claire,’* he had told me. *‘You cannot overpay for a debt of the soul.’*
“Look, Dad! The bubbles!” Leo shouted, hopping up and down on the stepstool.
With a dramatic flick of his wrist, Luca flipped the pancake. It landed with a satisfying sizzle, perfectly golden brown. Leo cheered, throwing his hands in the air, sending a tiny puff of flour floating across the marble.
“Perfection,” Luca declared, sliding the pancake onto Leo’s plate and topping it with a generous scoop of whipped cream and chocolate chips. “Go on, take it to the breakfast nook. The orange juice is already poured.”
Leo grabbed his plate with two hands, walking with exaggerated care across the hardwood floor toward the sunny bay window.
Luca set the pan off the heat, wiped his hands on a kitchen towel, and walked over to where I was sitting. He didn't keep the cold, formal distance of an employer anymore. He leaned against the counter beside my stool, close enough that I could smell the clean scent of cedar and roasted coffee on his skin.
“You’re quiet this morning, Claire,” he said, his voice dropping into that private, gentle tone he reserved only for Leo and me. “Is your mother feeling alright today?”
“She’s wonderful,” I said, looking up into his eyes. “She walked down to the courtyard yesterday without her cane. She told the head nurse she had to get in shape for Leo’s ninth birthday party next year.”
Luca’s lips curved into a soft, genuine smile. “She’ll have the head seat at the table.”
He reached out, his thumb gently brushing across my cheekbone. My breath caught in my throat.
“You had flour on your cheek,” he murmured, his thumb lingering for just half a second against my skin before dropping away. His gaze was intense, unhurried, speaking volumes that neither of us had yet put into words. “How was your first week reviewing the grant applications?”
“Overwhelming,” I admitted, leaning back slightly to regain my composure. “Vanessa had funneled nearly three million dollars from the hospice auxiliary into dummy shell companies in Delaware over the past three years. The forensic accountants are still untangling it.”
Luca’s expression darkened slightly, the protective edge returning to his jaw. “Russo told me yesterday that Arthur Bellini is attempting to strike a plea bargain. He wants to testify against his shipping partners to get Vanessa’s wire fraud charges reduced.”
My stomach tightened. “Could she get out?”
Luca reached out and took my hand where it rested on the cool marble. His fingers wrapped around mine, warm, solid, and reassuring.
“She will never touch a single dollar of Sarah’s estate again, Claire. And she will never come within a hundred miles of Leo. I’ve transferred the family trust into a blind conservatorship under your name and Leo’s.”
I pulled my hand back slightly in shock. “My name? Luca, no. That’s tens of millions of dollars. You can’t put that kind of legal power in my hands.”
“There is no one on this earth I trust more with my son’s life,” Luca said, his voice ringing with absolute certainty. “Sarah trusted your mother. I trust you.”
Before I could answer, the kitchen intercom buzzed with three short, rapid chimes.
May you like
Marco’s voice crackled through the speaker. *“Boss. Sorry to interrupt breakfast. Detective Russo is at the front gate. He says Arthur Bellini’s lawyer just delivered a sealed envelope addressed directly to Claire.”*
***
