The Lighter In The Driveway

The nightmare was over.

Within an hour, the police—the ones on Roman’s payroll—had quietly collected Greg. He would be handed over to the feds with enough evidence to put him away for twenty years, far out of the Morettis' reach.

The six stolen cases were recovered from the warehouse by Roman’s men.

We were back in the mansion.

The guests were gone. The grand dining room was empty, save for the ruined table settings and shattered glass.

Lily was asleep upstairs in the master guest suite, tucked beneath a down comforter. I had sat beside her until she stopped trembling, holding her tiny hand.

When I finally walked downstairs, the house felt entirely different.

It wasn’t a workplace anymore. It felt like a fortress that had just protected me.

I found Roman in the main study. He had taken off his jacket and tie. His sleeves were rolled up.

He was standing by the fireplace.

On the table between two leather armchairs sat the real 1982 Bellacourt.

Elias was pouring it into two crystal glasses.

“Ah, Megan,” Elias smiled warmly. The heavy burden he had carried all evening was gone. He looked ten years younger.

“How is she?” Roman asked softly, turning toward me.

“Sleeping,” I said, my voice hoarse. “She’s safe. Thank you. Both of you.”

Roman gestured to the empty leather chair. “Sit.”

I didn’t hesitate this time. I sat down. The leather was soft and warm.

Elias handed me a glass. The wine was the color of dark rubies. The smell filled the room—earth, dark fruit, and old oak.

“To Patrick Cole,” Elias said, raising his glass.

“To Patrick,” Roman echoed.

I raised my glass, a tear slipping down my cheek. “To my dad.”

We drank.

It was the best thing I had ever tasted.

Roman set his glass down. “Bianca is gone. Her bags were packed, and she was escorted off the property. The engagement is over.”

I looked at him. “Will the Morettis come after her?”

“I sent the real list to the FBI an hour ago,” Roman said calmly. “The Moretti leadership will be arrested by sunrise. Bianca is irrelevant now.”

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

“Tomorrow,” Roman said, “I’m paying off your mother’s property taxes. And Lily’s tuition is covered. Through college.”

I gasped. “Mr. DeLuca, I can’t accept—”

“Roman,” he corrected gently. “And you have no choice. It isn’t a gift, Megan. It’s back pay.”

I frowned. “Back pay for what?”

Elias reached into his jacket pocket. He pulled out a worn, leather-bound journal.

It was the journal that had been inside one of the six hidden cases.

He placed it on my lap.

“Open it,” Elias said softly.

I opened the stiff leather cover. The pages were yellowed, filled with my father’s familiar, messy handwriting.

But it wasn’t wine inventory.

It was real estate records. Holding companies. Corporate shares.

I looked up, confused.

“Your father wasn’t just my father’s friend,” Roman explained, his voice filled with deep respect. “He was his silent partner. He legally owned forty percent of the DeLuca import business.”

The room spun. “What?”

“When the Morettis targeted your father’s shop to get to us, your father refused to sell his shares to save himself,” Roman said. “He took the fall. He let himself go bankrupt so the Morettis wouldn’t find the true wealth. He protected my family’s legacy at the cost of his own.”

I stared at the journal. “My dad… died broke.”

“He died protecting his daughter,” Elias corrected gently. “He knew if the Morettis knew about his wealth, they would use you and your mother against him. He hid the wealth in a trust. It unlocks next week. On your thirty-fourth birthday.”

I covered my mouth, a sob tearing from my throat.

Roman reached into his pocket.

He pulled out a heavy, antique silver key.

“This is the key to the estate in Tuscany,” Roman said, placing it on the table. “Your father bought it with my father. It’s legally yours.”

He looked at me, his dark eyes filled with a strange, quiet vulnerability.