Chapter 7 - The Penthouse Overlooking the Park
The penthouse at the top of the Moretti Tower on Wall Street was four thousand square feet of glass, steel, and minimalist luxury, suspended four hundred feet above the financial district with an unobstructed panoramic view of New York Harbor.
It was 4:00 PM on Saturday afternoon.
The freezing rain had finally cleared, leaving the sky over the Atlantic a brilliant, crisp shade of sapphire blue, framed by the skeletal, sunlit towers of Lower Manhattan.
I stood by the floor-to-ceiling glass wall of the master salon, wearing a soft, oversized cream cashmere sweater and dark leggings, holding a mug of chamomile tea in both hands. Below us, the tiny yellow ants of taxi cabs crawled through the canyons of Broadway, completely unaware that forty stories above their heads, the underworld of the eastern seaboard had just been quietly, permanently reorganized.
The private elevator chime pinged softly.
The heavy glass doors slid open, and Luca walked out.
He had removed his suit jacket, wearing only a black merino-wool turtleneck and dark trousers, his dark hair ruffled by the wind from the roof. In his hands, he carried a small, flat black velvet box.
He walked across the polished walnut floor, stopping two feet behind me, his reflection appearing in the glass beside mine—tall, broad-shouldered, immovable.
“The Rossi family has officially filed for Chapter Eleven bankruptcy across all three of their shipping fronts,” Luca said quietly, resting his hands lightly on my hips. “Marcus Rossi is being held without bail at the Metropolitan Correctional Center downtown. And the zoning board unanimously approved the Hudson Yards redevelopment plan this morning.”
I took a slow sip of my tea, feeling the warmth spread through my chest. “And my apartment on Tenth Avenue?”
“The landlord received a wire transfer for five years of prepaid rent five minutes ago,” Luca murmured, his breath brushing against the nape of my neck. “Though I sincerely hope you have no intention of ever sleeping in a twenty-dollar-an-hour walkup when you have an entire floor of this building waiting for you.”
I turned around in his arms, looking up into his dark, fathomless eyes.
“You’re very good at reorganizing people’s lives, Mr. Moretti,” I teased, a small, playful smile touching my lips. “First you fire me from my restaurant job, then you make me head chef, then you give me a seventy-billion-dollar real-estate portfolio to audit, and now you’re trying to evict me from my kitchen.”
Luca didn't smile. His expression turned deadly serious, his gray eyes darkening with an emotion so intense it made my breath catch in my throat.
“I didn't reorganize your life, Ivy,” he whispered, his hands sliding up to cup my face, his thumbs gently tracing my cheekbones. “I rescued it. From the moment you walked across that club floor and told me I was going to die if I ate that fish... I knew I was never letting you walk out of my orbit.”
He lifted the small velvet box, clicking the brass clasp open with a single, sharp snap.
Inside rested an antique, five-carat cushion-cut yellow diamond set in an intricate platinum band, surrounded by twenty small emerald baguettes—the exact colors of the kitchen where we had shared our first midnight meal.
“Marry me, Ivy,” Luca said, his voice dropping into an octave of absolute, terrifying devotion. “Not as an executive assistant. Not as a corporate auditor. Marry me because you are the only woman on this earth who isn't afraid of my shadow... and the only one who knows how to keep my heart beating.”
Tears sprang to my eyes—not tears of fear, but tears of a profound, overwhelming peace that I had never expected to find in a world built on blood and money.
I reached out, my fingers wrapping around the cold metal of the platinum band, feeling the heavy, solid weight of it against my palm.
“Only if I get to design the menu for the wedding reception,” I whispered.
A slow, brilliant, triumphant smile spread across Luca’s face—the first time I had ever seen him look completely, unconditionally happy.
He slipped the ring onto my finger. It fit with mathematical, absolute perfection.
May you like
He pulled me against his chest, his mouth meeting mine in a deep, lingering, possessive kiss that tasted of victory, honey, and home.
And as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the skyscrapers of Manhattan in shades of liquid gold, I knew that the poisoner’s kitchen was far behind us—and the kingdom we had built together was finally, beautifully ours.
