Chapter 5 - The House on Astor Street
The private limestone mansion at 1412 Astor Street sat behind an eight-foot wrought-iron fence on the quietest, most aristocratic block of the Gold Coast, shielded from the noise of Lake Shore Drive by a double row of eighty-year-old red oaks.
At 4:00 on a crisp Saturday afternoon in late November, the double mahogany front doors stood wide open to the crisp autumn air.
Inside, the grand foyer was alive with the sweet, rich perfume of roasting turkey, cranberry sauce, and fresh pumpkin pie, mixing with the sharp, clean scent of cedar smoke from the marble fireplaces in the drawing rooms.
Sitting at the center of the massive dining table—a mahogany table that seated twenty, covered in fine white linen and antique silver—was Maya.
She looked eighteen years old, healthy, her cheeks flushed with color, wearing a beautiful blue velvet dress that Mrs. Donatelli had custom-fitted for her, laughing as she watched old Mr. Henderson—who had somehow been persuaded to take over as estate butler—serve her a second slice of warm apple pie.
"The insulin shipments are secured for the next ten years, Maya," Mason said, walking into the dining room, his suit jacket removed, his white shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows, carrying a crystal decanter of port.
He poured a small glass for Mr. Henderson, poured one for himself, and then pulled out the chair directly beside mine.
Maya smiled—a bright, brilliant, unburdened smile that made my heart swell until it ached.
"Mr. Moretti," she teased, her eyes dancing with mischief. "Do I still have to call you Mr. Moretti now that you're married to my sister?"
Mason stopped, his glass hovering over the table.
He looked at Maya, then turned his dark, intense gaze onto me, a slow, magnificent smile touching the corners of his mouth.
"You can call me Mason, Maya," he said softly, reaching across the white linen to take my hand in his, his warm, scarred fingers interlacing with mine.
"Or you can call me whatever your sister calls me when she’s finished auditing my books."
I rolled my eyes, kicking his shin gently beneath the table, though the heat rising in my cheeks gave me away entirely.
"Eat your pie, Mason," I murmured, my voice dropping into that quiet, intimate register that belonged only to us. "You have a board meeting on Monday morning, and I still need to check your expense reports."
Mason laughed—a deep, chest-resonant, chest-expanding sound that made the crystal chandeliers above our heads ring like tiny bells.
He lifted his glass, looking down at me with an ocean of dark, fathomless devotion in his gray eyes.
May you like
"To the audit, Clara," he toasted softly.
I clinked my water glass against his crystal, feeling the steady, powerful rhythm of his heart beating against the table, knowing that the ledger was balanced, the past was buried, and the future belonged entirely, beautifully, and permanently to us.
