Chapter 7
Two weeks passed.
Spring began to make its first tentative appearance in Chicago, melting the dark mounds of snow along the streets and filling the estate gardens with fresh, green life.
The South Side was quiet. The takeover of the Vandermark shipping lines had expanded my family's business to record heights, but more importantly, our home was filled with peace.
My mother was making astounding progress. She was now able to walk short distances with a cane, and her voice was growing stronger every day.
Delia had officially resigned from her nursing agency. I had established a fully funded medical charity in Ewan's name—The Ewan Moretti Foundation—which provided free pediatric and elder care across the South Side, and I appointed Delia as its executive director.
It was a warm Tuesday evening when I found Delia standing on the stone terrace overlooking the estate garden, wearing a soft cream-colored sweater, her hair blowing gently in the spring breeze. The dark bruise on her temple had completely faded, leaving her skin flawless and radiant.
I walked up behind her, sliding my arms gently around her waist and pulling her back against my chest.
She didn't flinch. She leaned back into my warmth, letting out a soft, contented sigh as she rested her head against my shoulder.
"You look deep in thought," I murmured into her ear, smelling the sweet scent of lavender in her hair.
"I was just thinking about my first night in this house," Delia said softly, turning in my arms to face me, resting her hands on my chest. "I was so terrified. I thought you were just another cold, ruthless mob boss who wouldn't care about the truth."
"I was cold," I admitted, looking down into her deep brown eyes. "I had spent twelve years turning my heart into stone just to survive this city. But then a brave, stubborn nurse gave me an order in my own hallway."
Delia laughed—a light, musical sound that filled the evening air with joy. "You really hated that, didn't you?"
"I hated it," I smiled, leaning down until my lips were inches from hers. "Until I realized that for two years, you were the only person in this world who cared about my family for nothing in return."
I reached into my pocket and pulled out a small velvet box.
Delia’s breath hitched. She looked at the box, then back up at my face, her eyes wide with sudden emotion.
I opened the box, revealing a breathtaking ring featuring a rare, flawless canary diamond surrounded by delicate platinum lace—a custom piece crafted by the finest jeweler in Italy.
"Dominic..." she whispered, her voice trembling.
"Delia Marie Marlowe," I said, my voice rich with deep, absolute devotion. "You saved my mother’s life. You gave me back my brother’s memory. And you broke down every wall I ever built around my heart. I don't want you to just be part of this house. I want you to be my wife. I want you to be the Queen of this family."
Tears of pure happiness overflowed her eyes as she looked at the ring, then threw her arms around my neck, pressing her body tightly against mine.
"Yes," she sobbed joyfully into my collarbone. "Yes, Dominic! A thousand times yes!"
May you like
I slipped the ring onto her finger, pulled her close, and pressed my lips to hers in a deep, passionate kiss that sealed our futures together.
Down in the garden below, my mother sat in a wheelchair pushed by Gideon, watching us with a radiant smile on her face, clapping her hands gently in blessing.
