Chapter 7 - The Master of Old Westbury
The evening sun was setting over the Long Island Sound, painting the sky in brilliant shades of violet, orange, and rose gold.
At the Moretti estate in Old Westbury, the heavy iron gates stood open, guarded by six of Franco's best men wearing tailored dark suits without a single weapon visible.
Inside the grand house, the atmosphere had completely changed.
The white orchid arrangements for the wedding had been cleared away, replaced by large vases of fresh wild sunflowers and red roses. The smell of expensive catering food was gone, replaced by the rich, comforting aroma of roasted garlic, fresh basil, and handmade pasta sauce drifting from the main kitchen.
In the grand living room, seated on a massive velvet sofa under an original Renaissance oil painting, sat Isabella.
She wore a simple, elegant dark green silk dress I had ordered from a boutique in Manhattan that morning—no diamonds, no grand jewelry, just a small gold chain around her neck holding the original key to her bakery apartment in Hell's Kitchen.
Beside her sat Lily.
The little girl was wearing a light blue cotton dress, her knees pulled up to her chest, holding a silver spoon as she ate homemade gelato from a small crystal bowl.
I stood near the marble fireplace, wearing a dark gray suit with an open collar, holding a glass of aged Barolo, watching them.
Franco entered the room softly, holding a silver tray with three sealed envelopes. He set the tray on the coffee table beside Isabella.
"The property titles for the 138th Street building have been transferred to the Moretti Educational Trust, boss," Franco reported smoothly. "The tenants have all been notified that their rents are reduced by fifty percent, effective immediately, and a construction crew starts renovations on Monday."
"And the Vance estate in Queens?" I asked.
"Liquidated by the federal marshals this afternoon," Franco said with a faint nod. "The proceeds are being placed into a court-ordered restitution fund for domestic crime victims—managed directly by Miss Bennett's foundation."
"Thank you, Franco," Isabella said softly, looking up from her gelato. "For everything."
Franco bowed his head with deep, genuine respect—a gesture he had previously reserved only for my father and me. "It is an honor to serve you, Miss Bennett. And you, little princess," he added, winking at Lily.
Lily giggled, her mouth covered in pink gelato. "I'm not a princess. I'm Lily."
"You are a Moretti," Franco corrected gently, his rough face breaking into a warm smile. "Which means you can be whatever you want in this city."
When Franco left the room, the silence that followed was rich, warm, and comfortable.
I walked over to the sofa, setting my wine glass on the side table, and sat down beside Isabella.
She looked at me, her dark eyes clear and calm, the shadows that had framed them for seven years finally beginning to fade under the soft amber light of the chandelier.
"It happened so fast," she whispered, leaning her head gently against my shoulder. "This morning I was sleeping in a three-room apartment worried about eight hundred dollars rent. Tonight..."
"Tonight you are home," I said, reaching down to cover her hand with mine.
Lily set her crystal bowl on the table, wiped her chin with a white linen napkin, and climbed onto the sofa between us. She looked up at the high carved ceiling, then at the massive fireplace, and finally at my face.
"Daddy?" she said.
The word hung in the quiet room like a bell ringing in an empty cathedral.
It was the first time she had used the word.
My heart stopped, then started again with a sudden, powerful surge that made my hands tremble.
"Yes, Lily?" I whispered, leaning down.
"Can I see the pink room now?" she asked, her big gray eyes shining with excitement. "The one with the tiny shoes?"
May you like
I looked at Isabella. Her eyes were filled with tears, but she was smiling—a brilliant, radiant expression that illuminated the entire room.
"Yes," I said, lifting my daughter into my arms and standing up. "Let's go see your room."
