Chapter 5 - The Beacon Hill DawnThe rain had finally stopped by five o'clock in the morning.
A pale, cold light was beginning to break over the rooftops of Beacon Hill, turning the wet brick streets and bronze gas lamps into a quiet world of gold and iron.
The black sedan pulled up to the front entrance of the grand townhouse on Chestnut Street—the penthouse residence Alessandro had bought three years ago, the one I had fled after his funeral because the silence inside its vast, high-ceilinged rooms had felt like a tomb.
The heavy front door was opened by Mrs. Gable, the elderly housekeeper who had worked for the Duca family for thirty years.
She was standing in the marble foyer, wearing her black dress and white apron, her eyes red from crying. When she saw Alessandro walk through the door, carrying me in his arms once again, she gasped, pressing her hands to her mouth as tears spilled over her wrinkled cheeks.
"Lord in Heaven..." Mrs. Gable whispered. "It's true. Young Master Alessandro..."
"Go home to your family for the week, Mrs. Gable," Alessandro said gently as he walked past her toward the grand curved staircase. "The house will be closed until Monday."
"Yes, sir," she sobbed, bowing her head. "God bless you, sir. God bless you both."
He carried me up the two flights of carpeted stairs to the master suite on the top floor.
The room had not been touched in six months.
The massive king-sized bed was made with dark grey silk sheets. On the nightstand sat a framed black-and-white photograph of me—taken at a beach in Martha’s Vineyard two summers ago, laughing while the wind blew my hair across my face. Beside it sat a crystal vase containing three long-stemmed white orchids—fresh, blooming, and perfectly tended.
"You had her put fresh flowers in here every week?" I asked softly as he set me down on the edge of the bed.
"Every Tuesday," Alessandro said, stepping back to remove his coat and tie. "I needed to know that when you came back, the room would look as if I had only stepped out for ten minutes."
I sat on the edge of the silk duvet, watching him as he unbuttoned his white shirt, exposing his chest.
My eyes stopped.
Across his ribcage, stretching from his sternum down to his hip, was a massive, dark purple scar—a jagged, brutal grid of skin that looked as if it had been pieced back together by a surgeon who had worked in the dark.
I stood up, my bare feet sinking into the thick cream carpet, and walked toward him.
"Does it hurt?" I whispered, my hand hovering above the damaged skin.
"Only when it rains," he said, taking my hand and pressing my palm flat against the center of the scar, directly over his heart.
His skin was hot, his pulse slow, steady, and invincible beneath my fingers.
"Alessandro," I said, looking up into his dark eyes. "What happens now? Is it really over?"
"Camillo is gone," he said softly. "His captains have signed their surrenders to Matteo. The families in New York have recognized my claim to the port. There is no one left to fight, Emma."
"And us?" I asked, my heart pounding against my ribs. "What are we?"
Alessandro reached out, his long fingers cupping the back of my neck, pulling me half an inch closer until our lips were almost touching.
"Three years ago," he whispered, "I brought a server home from a restaurant because I couldn't bear the thought of another man looking at her. For two years, I tried to keep you in a clean box while I ran a dirty world."
He leaned down, his lips brushing against mine with a soft, reverent pressure.
"I was a fool," he murmured against my mouth. "You don't belong in a box, Emma. You belong at the head of my table. You belong in my name. You belong in every room I walk into."
He reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out a small, dark velvet box.
My breath hitched.
He didn't drop to one knee. He didn't make a grand speech. He simply flipped the box open with his thumb.
Inside sat a massive, emerald-cut diamond ring, set in a band of cold, unpolished platinum. It wasn't delicate. It was heavy, magnificent, and absolute—a ring meant for a queen who ruled beside a king.
"I bought this seven months ago," Alessandro said, his voice dropping into a register that made my soul tremble. "The day before the warehouse burned. I carried it in my pocket through three miles of harbor water. I kept it on my desk in the Foundry for six months."
He took the ring from the velvet box, holding it between his fingers.
"Emma Carter," he said, his dark eyes locking onto mine with a fierce, unwavering love that made every tear I had shed over his grave worth it. "Will you marry a dead man?"
A laugh—half a sob, half a sound of pure, radiant joy—escaped my lips.
"You're not dead, Alessandro," I whispered, reaching out and sliding my left hand into his wide, warm palm. "You're never going to die."
May you like
He slid the heavy platinum band onto my ring finger. It fit perfectly—as if it had been forged for my skin before I was even born.
Then he lifted me in his arms once more, bringing me down onto the dark silk sheets of the bed, his body coming down over mine like a warm, protective shield that blocked out the dark, the rain, and the cold world outside forever.
