Chapter 6 - The Sunset Over Chicago
Three months later, the private courtyard of the Duca estate was bathed in the warm, golden light of a late autumn sunset.
The ninety-day contract had officially expired at midnight.
There were no reporters, no high-society socialites, and no rival syndicates lurking in the shadows. Federal prosecutors, prompted by the sudden, inexplicable surrender of incriminating ledgers from a rival faction downtown, had dismantled the Moretti threat weeks prior. The estate was quiet, peaceful, and entirely reclaimed.
Amelia sat on a wrought-iron bench near the stone fountain, wearing a deep burgundy velvet dress that caught the evening light. A small, open sketchbook rested on her lap, though her charcoal pencil hadn't moved in ten minutes.
Footsteps approached from behind, steady and heavy.
A large, warm hand rested gently on her shoulder, and a moment later, Lorenzo lowered his massive frame onto the bench beside her. He looked different than he had three months ago. The severe, untouchable edge that had defined him was softened by a quiet, settled contentment.
"You're not drawing," Lorenzo observed, his deep voice carrying a teasing warmth.
Amelia closed the sketchbook and looked up at him. "I was thinking."
"Dangerous habit."
"Only when my thoughts involve you." She smiled, reaching out to trace the lapel of his tailored black suit. "You know, technically, my ninety days are up today."
Lorenzo’s dark eyes narrowed slightly, though a faint, knowing smile played at the corners of his mouth. "Are they?"
"According to Rosa's original paperwork. The contract has expired. I am legally free to pack my rose-gold suitcase and take a flight back to Savannah."
Lorenzo shifted on the bench, turning to face her fully. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small, heavy velvet box. He didn't open it; he simply placed it on the bench between them.
"Rosa didn't send you a renewal contract, did she?" Amelia asked softly, her heart fluttering.
"Rosa retired from matchmaking last week," Lorenzo replied, his gaze locked onto hers with absolute, unwavering devotion. "She told me that if I let a brilliant, stubborn, beautiful woman like you walk out of these gates, I deserved to spend the rest of my life alone with Marco's terrible cooking."
Amelia let out a bright, genuine laugh. "Well, Marco's cooking is a legitimate deterrent."
Lorenzo reached out, his large fingers gently lifting her chin so she had no choice but to drown in the dark intensity of his eyes. The shadows of the past—the rumors, the whispers, the cruelty of a world that refused to look past the surface—dissipated entirely beneath the warmth of the setting sun.
"I don't want a ninety-day arrangement, Amelia," Lorenzo said, his voice dropping into a low, reverent murmur. "I want a lifetime. I want you at the end of every table, in every room, holding every key to this house and my heart. If you'll have me."
Amelia didn't hesitate. She threw her arms around his thick neck, pulling him down into a kiss that tasted like home, like victory, and like a future neither of them had ever thought possible.
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From the second-story window of the sunroom, seventy-nine-year-old Rosa Duca lowered her opera glasses, took a slow sip of her espresso, and smiled with quiet, absolute satisfaction.
The Duca empire was safe. And for the first time in his life, its king had finally found his peace.
