Chapter 10 - The Master of the House
Three months later.
Late August brought a golden, glorious warmth to Puget Sound. The sky over Seattle was a vast dome of unbroken blue, and the waters below reflected the sunlight like a million scattered diamonds.
The terrace of the Moretti estate was filled with white roses, crystal champagne flutes, and ninety guests representing the highest echelons of Seattle society, shipping, and medicine.
At the head of the long dining table sat Isabella Moretti. She wore a lavender silk dress, her silver hair styled elegantly, looking ten years younger than she had on the night she collapsed at the Gilded Lily.
Beside her sat Sarah Vance, completely healthy, smiling warmly as she chatted with the head of Swedish Medical Center.
And at the center of the terrace stood Lorenzo and Clara.
Clara wore a breathtaking ivory silk gown that draped softly over her shoulders, her brown hair falling in romantic curls down her back. On her left hand, catching the summer sunlight, was a flawless five-carat emerald-cut diamond ring.
Lorenzo wore a fitted black tuxedo. The scar over his eyebrow was still visible, but the coldness in his gray eyes was gone forever—replaced by a deep, fierce, unshakeable warmth whenever he looked down at his wife.
"A toast!" Isabella announced, standing up and raising her champagne glass.
The ninety guests went quiet, turning their attention toward the head table.
Isabella looked at her son, then at Clara.
"Four months ago," Isabella said, her raspy voice carrying clearly across the terrace, "I went to dinner at a restaurant expecting a quiet evening. Instead, I died."
The guests chuckled softly.
"And while thirty powerful men sat in terror," Isabella continued, her eyes glistening with happy tears, "a brave young woman ignored the rules, broke my rib, and dragged me back into this world."
She raised her glass higher.
"To my daughter-in-law, Clara Vance Moretti. The only woman in North America capable of bringing my son to his knees with a single glass of water."
The crowd erupted into cheers and applause.
Lorenzo didn't care about the applause. He turned to Clara, wrapped his arm around her waist, and pulled her close against his chest.
"She's right, you know," Lorenzo whispered into her ear, his deep voice sending shivers down her spine.
Clara looked up into his gray eyes, a soft smile curving her lips. "About what?"
"About my knees," Lorenzo murmured, kissing the tip of her nose. "I was on my knees the second you looked at me over my mother's chest."
Clara laughed, leaning up to press her lips softly against his jaw.
May you like
"Good," she whispered against his skin. "Because I intend to keep you there for the next fifty years."
Lorenzo smiled—a real, whole, radiant smile that illuminated his sharp face—and leaned down to capture her lips in a deep, passionate kiss that sealed their legacy forever under the warm Seattle sun.
