Chapter 10 - Spring on Lake Michigan
Four months later, the ice on Lake Michigan had finally thawed into a brilliant, slate-blue expanse under a warm May sun that made the Chicago skyline look like a jagged cathedral of glass and steel.
The Moretti estate was quiet. The ballroom had been repainted, the carpets replaced, and Vanessa Whitmore was nothing more than a bitter paragraph in the society columns of the Tribune. Eleanor Moretti sat in her favorite spot in the east conservatory, sipping warm tea, her heart beating with a steady, rhythmic cadence that required no medical intervention whatsoever.
Dominic Moretti stood at the mahogany desk in his private study, his charcoal jacket neatly hung over the chair, his sleeves rolled up to his forearms.
The floor safe behind his grandfather’s oil painting stood open. Inside, alongside the traditional ledgers and gold bearer bonds, sat a single, plain white envelope bearing no return address and a federal postmark from a small town in northern California.
Dominic slid his finger under the flap and pulled out a small, unadorned postcard.
On the front was a photograph of towering coastal redwoods stretching up into a clear, endless blue sky.
On the back, written in clean, precise, familiar handwriting, were just two sentences:
“The soil out here is rich, and the water is clean. The ledger is finally balanced.” — H.
Dominic stared at the card for a long, quiet moment. A slow, genuine smile—the kind no newspaper reporter or syndicate capo had ever captured on film—touched the corners of his mouth.
May you like
He picked up a pen, slid the postcard back into its envelope, and locked it securely inside the vault.
Then he walked out into the sunlight, leaving the doors wide open to the lake breeze, ready for whatever tomorrow brought.
