Chapter 8 - The Room on the Sound
Three months later.
The early autumn sun rose over the rocky promontory of Sands Point, Long Island, in a breathtaking, cinematic explosion of burning violet, deep copper, and brilliant, honey-colored gold that turned the waters of Long Island Sound into fields of liquid fire.
The air on the high stone terrace of the Moretti ancestral estate was crisp, vast, and smelling of sweet cedar woodsmoke, clean ocean salt, and the rich, invigorating chill of the approaching winter.
The historic granite manor had undergone a total, magnificent resurrection.
The high wrought-iron security gates had been permanently removed, replaced by low fieldstone walls and open fields of wild sweet clover; the sixty rooms were filled with natural morning light, classical sculpture, and the crackle of dry birch logs in four massive limestone fireplaces; and down on the deep-water pier below the bluffs sat the Grace M.—an eighty-foot wooden schooner that Alessandro had commissioned from the historic shipyards of Maine.
Sitting on a wide teak bench on the terrace, reading the morning edition of the New York Times, was Marco Bianchi.
He wore an unbuttoned wool chore coat over an open-collared flannel shirt, his posture completely relaxed, his face transformed by a deep, untouchable serenity that had never existed during his twenty years as an armed enforcer.
"The European container consortium signed the thirty-year terminal lease extensions twenty minutes ago, Grace," Marco said, looking up from his paper with a proud, brilliant smile. "Our zero-emission port model has officially been certified by the United Nations Maritime Organization. We cleared sixty million dollars in net operating revenue for the third quarter."
I stood at the granite balustrade of the terrace, holding a steaming ceramic mug of dark roast coffee with both hands, leaning my elbows against the warm stone.
I wore an oversized cream cable-knit fisherman’s sweater over dark denim trousers, my dark hair falling softly around my shoulders, my thirty-one-year-old frame feeling lighter, stronger, and more whole than it had in my entire life.
Beside my boots, resting his massive golden head against my knee, was Barnaby, whose tail thumped a steady, rhythmic cadence against the flagstones as he watched the gulls soaring above the cliffs.
"And the medical clinics, Marco?" I asked, turning my head to look down at him.
"The clinic broke ground on the Flushing campus yesterday afternoon, Grace," Marco smiled, folding his newspaper. "Four hundred families are already enrolled in the autumn pediatric registry. Full health coverage funded directly from the foundation’s endowment."
A soft, clean tear broke over my lower lash, hot and bright, tracing down my cheek into the morning wind.
I remembered the cold kitchen in Queens eleven months ago; I remembered the unheated radiators; I remembered the three lines on my bank statement that had told me my child was one month away from the street.
Now, her name was carved into five hundred feet of reinforced maritime granite, where two thousand free men and women owned the ground beneath their boots.
A soft, familiar step sounded on the flagstones behind me.
Alessandro walked up the terrace steps, wearing an unbuttoned black wool coat over a gray cashmere sweater, carrying two fresh-baked blueberry scones on a silver plate that Mrs. Gable had prepared on the woodstove.
He set the plate on the stone table, walked over to the balustrade, and wrapped his broad arms around my waist from behind, resting his chin comfortably on my shoulder, pulling me back against his chest.
"Morning, Chief Executive," Alessandro murmured, his deep baritone carrying over the sound of the ocean swells.
I smiled—a wide, unreserved, magnificent expression that illuminated my entire face—and reached up, my warm fingers sliding over his wrists, feeling the familiar, powerful thrum of his heartbeat beneath the heavy wool.
"Morning, Alessandro," I whispered softly against his jawline.
They stood together in silence for a long moment, watching the white sails of a pilot boat cut across the outer whitecaps, the crisp salt wind carrying the clean scent of the open sea.
The oak tree was still standing in the garden.
The Kimber .45 was locked in the gun safe.
The wolves who had tried to steal my child’s blood were rotting in the dark cages they had forged with their own greed.
And as the bells of the distant coastal lighthouse chimed their nine-o'clock chorus across the bay, Grace Miller Moretti took a deep, uninhibited breath of the cold Atlantic air and smiled.
She was not a maid waiting for an eviction.
She was the master of her own life, the owner of her own mind, and the sovereign guardian of an unbroken family that belonged, wholly and forever, to the light.
Alessandro leaned down, pressing his lips against my temple, his arms tightening around my waist with gentle, unyielding permanence.
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"Look at that harbor, Grace," he whispered into the sweet autumn wind, pointing toward the vast, sparkling blue water stretching toward Europe under an unclouded American sky.
"That's our water. And it runs clean forever."
