Chapter 9 - The Sicilian Ring
By April, the spring thaw had transformed Chicago into a city of bright blue skies and fresh lake breezes.
The yellow flowers on the terrace of 1100 Lake Shore Drive were in full, vibrant bloom.
On a warm Saturday afternoon, Chloe sat at the outdoor teak table, wearing a white linen sundress and a denim jacket, cross-referencing the charitable endowments of the newly established Bennett-Rossy Community Maritime Trust on her tablet.
She reached for her glass of iced lemonade, knocked it over with her elbow, and caught it just before the liquid reached the edge of the table, laughing out loud at her own permanent lack of coordination.
Footsteps clicked rhythmically against the stone patio.
Lorenzo walked out onto the terrace. He wore a crisp white linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up, dark trousers, and no shoes, his dark hair ruffled by the fresh wind coming off Lake Michigan.
In his hands, he carried a small, flat box carved from ancient Sicilian olive wood.
He pulled out the chair beside hers, sat down, and set the wooden box on top of her digital tablet.
"What's this?" Chloe asked, looking up into his eyes. "More quarterly compliance audits?"
"Open it, Chloe," Lorenzo said softly.
Chloe slid the small brass latch free and lifted the wooden lid.
Inside, resting on a bed of dark green velvet, lay an exquisite, antique platinum ring. In the center sat an unblemished, four-carat emerald-cut diamond, flanked by two raw, unpolished black obsidian stones—the exact volcanic glass of the desk where she had spilled her pennies on her first day.
Chloe’s breath stopped. Her fingers hovered over the velvet, trembling.
"Lorenzo..." she whispered.
"My grandfather brought those obsidian stones from the slopes of Mount Etna when he built the first dock in Chicago," Lorenzo said, his voice deep, steady, and filled with a reverent, unyielding love.
"He told my father that a man can build an empire with steel and gunpowder, but he can only keep it if he finds a woman whose soul is stronger than his stone."
He reached into the box, lifted the heavy ring, and took her left hand in his large, calloused palm.
"You came into my office with a broken shoe, a torn blazer, and an upside-down invoice, Chloe," Lorenzo murmured, his thumb gently stroking her knuckles.
"You broke my vases. You spilled water on my underboss. You color-coded my syndicates in bright pink."
A rare, radiant smile broke across his handsome, scarred face.
"And you made a monster remember that he had a heart."
He looked directly into her hazel eyes, his soul laid completely bare beneath the spring sun.
"Will you marry me, Miss Bennett?"
Chloe looked at the ring. Then she looked at the man who had torn down an entire underworld just to keep her safe.
A tear slipped from her eye, tracing a warm path down her cheek.
"On one condition, Mr. Rossy," she whispered, a brilliant, beautiful smile illuminating her face.
Lorenzo’s eyes danced with amusement. "Name it."
"I am picking out the living room furniture," Chloe smiled. "And everything... will have rounded corners."
May you like
Lorenzo laughed—a rich, triumphant sound that echoed over the waters of Lake Michigan—and slid the obsidian ring onto her finger.
It fit perfectly.
