Chapter 12 - The Family Portrait
One year later.
The autumn sun streamed through the massive bay windows of the restored Moretti mansion, bathing the grand foyer in warm, golden light.
The shattered iron gates had been replaced. The bullet holes were patched. But more importantly, the suffocating, dark atmosphere that had haunted the house for decades was entirely gone.
I stood in the center of the foyer, wearing a simple, elegant ivory dress, adjusting a vase of fresh sunflowers on the entryway table.
“Mom, stop fussing, it looks perfect!”
I turned around and smiled. My mother walked out of the drawing room, holding a tray of freshly baked cookies. She looked healthier and happier than she had in years. The private medical care Dominic had provided had completely healed her heart condition.
“I just want everything to be right for the photographer,” I laughed, taking a cookie from the tray.
“The photographer is already set up in the study, Mrs. Moretti,” Marcus’s voice echoed from the hallway.
I smiled at the sound of my new name. Marcus, Dominic’s loyal head of security, had survived the shot to the chest thanks to a Kevlar vest he had worn under his suit that night. He was now the head of logistics for Dominic’s new, completely legitimate shipping company.
“Thank you, Marcus,” I said. “Where is my husband?”
“Right here.”
Dominic walked down the grand staircase. He wasn’t wearing a stiff, imposing tuxedo. He wore a tailored navy suit, looking relaxed, handsome, and deeply at peace.
He walked over and wrapped his arms around my waist from behind, kissing my cheek.
“You look beautiful,” he murmured.
“You clean up nicely yourself, Mr. Moretti,” I teased, leaning back against his chest.
It had been a busy year. Dominic had kept his promise. The Genovese family had stayed in their territory, terrified of the blackmail files securely locked in a Swiss vault. Dominic had dissolved the illegal rackets, transforming the Moretti syndicate into a massive, legitimate real estate and shipping empire.
We were no longer a crime family. We were just a family.
“Are we ready for the picture?” Dominic asked, taking my hand.
“Almost,” I said.
We walked together into the drawing room.
Above the roaring fireplace, a new portrait hung on the wall.
It was a beautiful oil painting of Frank, smiling gently, wearing his brown suit with the mismatched buttons.
Dominic stood in front of the painting for a long moment. He reached up and touched the heavy wooden frame.
“He would have loved this house now,” Dominic said softly.
“He’s watching over it,” I promised, squeezing his hand.
Dominic smiled. He reached up to his collar and adjusted his tie.
It wasn’t an expensive Italian silk tie.
It was the black cotton tie with the uneven blue stitch. The one Frank had sewn with his failing, trembling hands. Dominic wore it to every important event, a badge of honor far more valuable than any mafia crest.
“Alright,” Dominic said, turning to the photographer waiting near the window. “We’re ready.”
My mother stood on my left, holding my arm. Dominic stood on my right, his hand resting securely on the small of my back.
The photographer raised his camera. “Smile, everyone!”
The flash went off, capturing a moment of pure, hard-won happiness.
We were standing in a house built on blood and lies, but we had scrubbed it clean with loyalty and love.
I looked at my husband, admiring the crooked black tie resting against his pristine white shirt.
The mafia boss was gone.
The man who remained was a king.
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And as he looked down at me, his eyes filled with a love that would never fade, I knew without a shadow of a doubt that I was right where I belonged.
Safe. Loved. And home.
