Chapter 9 - The Garden on Astor Street
Three months later, on a brilliant, sunny Saturday afternoon in late July, the historic Astor Street Manor in the Gold Coast of Chicago was an island of blooming white hydrangeas, fragrant boxwood hedges, and ancient elm trees.
Luca had sold the fortified suburban compound in the woods three weeks after the trial, moving our family into a magnificent, four-story nineteen-twenties limestone mansion on the quietest residential avenue in the city.
There were no barbed-wire perimeter fences.
There were no armored sentries pacing the sidewalk with submachine guns.
The wrought-iron front gates stood permanently open, draped in fresh garlands of white garden roses, dark green ivy, and fragrant eucalyptus boughs.
In the expansive rear courtyard, beneath the shade of a century-old weeping willow, forty people were gathered around long banquet tables draped in yellow linen: longshoremen from the port terminal who had known my father, pediatric nurses from the children's hospital where Lily volunteered on weekends, the surviving captains of the commercial logistics cooperative, and neighbors from the avenue, all dressed in their finest summer attire.
At the head of the table sat Don Salvatore, wearing a clean linen suit, holding a crystal glass of sparkling cider, laughing loudly as Marco showed him a photograph of his new puppy.
Beside the stone fountain in the center of the garden stood twelve-year-old Lily.
She wore a simple, breathtaking sundress of pale yellow silk that fluttered in the warm breeze, her dark curls swept back with a matching ribbon, her face glowing with that serene, fearless, and unshakeable radiance that belongs only to a child who knows she is the center of her world.
In her hands, she carried a small, polished silver tray.
On the tray sat not champagne flutes.
On the tray sat three slices of warm strawberry shortcake that she had baked herself in the kitchen forty minutes earlier, topped with fresh whipped cream and mint leaves.
She walked across the brick flagstones with an easy, confident, and joyful grace, stopping beside the stone bench where Luca and I sat together beneath the willow branches.
"Special delivery for the Boss and the Boss's Boss," Lily announced with a theatrical, royal curtsy that made the entire garden erupt into affectionate chuckles.
Luca laughed—a rich, booming sound that rumbled deep in his broad chest—and scooped a giant dollop of whipped cream onto his finger, playfully dabbing it onto the tip of his daughter's nose.
"You're getting too good with that tray, Miss Moretti," Luca smiled, pulling her onto his lap as she giggled, wiping her nose with the linen napkin.
"I learned from the best, Daddy," Lily said, wrapping her arm around my neck, resting her cheek against my temple. "Claire told me that a silver tray is only heavy when you're carrying it for people who don't know what you're worth."
I smiled, reaching out to tuck a loose curl behind her ear, my five-carat blue sapphire catching the midday sun like a captured star.
"And what are you worth, Lily Moretti?" I asked softly, my heart overflowing with an unshakeable, sacred gratitude.
Lily looked at her father, then looked at me, her bright hazel eyes sparkling with boundless, eternal joy:
"I’m worth the whole kingdom, Claire," she declared with absolute, unassailable confidence.
"And so are you."
Luca’s arm tightened securely around both of us, pulling his daughter and his fiancée flush against his heart, his handsome face radiant with that deep, generational peace that had conquered the darkness of his ancestors.
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"Amen to that, baby," Luca whispered against our hair.
"Amen to that."
