Chapter 4 - The South Side Reclamation
The restoration of Antonio Moretti’s workshop did not happen in an afternoon. It became a sanctuary of healing that stretched across the following three weeks.
Every afternoon after Matteo finished his classes, the three of us met in the carriage house. The autumn leaves were turning vibrant shades of copper and gold, drifting across the driveway as the crisp October wind heralded the coming winter.
Luca had dismissed the domestic staff’s rigid protocols regarding my role. When Mrs. Gable, the head housekeeper, attempted to assign me to inventorying the third-floor linen closets during the afternoon, Luca had intervened directly, stating that my primary duty was now assisting him with estate management and Matteo’s personal supervision.
In reality, it meant I was by his side.
Under Luca’s guidance, Matteo and I learned how to steam and clamp the cracked support beams of the ancient oak workbench. My bandaged hand had healed remarkably well, leaving only a faint pink scar across the meat of my palm—a mark that Luca noticed every time he handed me a tool.
One Saturday afternoon, the three of us were working in comfortable silence. Matteo was at the far end of the bench using a sanding block to smooth the new oak plank we had fitted into the tabletop, his tongue poking out in intense concentration.
Luca stood beside me, sharpening a series of vintage hand chisels on an oil stone. The steady, rhythmic scraping of steel against stone was mesmerizing.
“Julian Bellini didn't stay in Miami,” Luca said quietly, his voice low so as not to alert Matteo.
I paused, setting down the rag of tung oil I was using to seal the wood. “What do you mean?”
“He returned to Chicago three days ago,” Luca answered, his eyes focused on the edge of the chisel blade. “His father Carmine had a stroke on Tuesday night. Julian took control of the family syndicate by default.”
A chill ran down my spine. “Is he coming after you?”
“He’s desperate,” Luca said. “The Bellini distribution network is collapsing without our dock access. Julian owes thirty million dollars to a cartel syndicate out of Montreal. Without the leverage Vanessa promised him, he’s drowning.”
Luca wiped the chisel blade with a soft cloth, testing the sharpness against the hair on his forearm.
“Vanessa is staying at their South Side estate,” Luca continued. “She’s been trying to rally the remaining capos on the North Side, telling them that I’ve grown weak. She’s using the fact that I canceled the wedding over ‘a child’s toy’ to paint me as erratic.”
I looked at Matteo, who was humming a song under his breath while inspecting his sanding work.
“Does it bother you?” I asked softly. “What they’re saying about you in the city?”
Luca stopped working. He set the chisel down on the leather tool roll and turned to face me. He reached out, his fingers gently brushing a speck of sawdust from my cheek. The tenderness of the gesture contrasted starkly with the lethal strength in his hands.
“For ten years, Claire, I lived in fear of being seen as weak,” Luca confessed. “When my father died, I thought the only way to protect Matteo was to become an iron wall. I surrounded myself with soldiers, built high gates, and agreed to marry a woman from a powerful family because I thought armor was all that mattered.”
His hand lingered near my face, his thumb grazing my jawline.
“Then I watched you reach into a roaring fireplace with your bare hand to save a crooked wooden box,” he whispered. “You didn't have armor. You didn't have soldiers. You just had love for a little boy who wasn't even yours. And in that second, I realized that Julian Bellini, Vanessa, and every Don in this city have it completely backward. True strength isn't the power to destroy. It’s having something you love enough to bleed for.”
My breath caught in my throat. The air between us grew impossibly heavy, charged with an electricity that made my pulse race.
“Luca...” I whispered.
“Dad! Look!” Matteo’s voice broke the spell.
Luca stepped back, clearing his throat, though a warm flush rose along the back of his neck.
Matteo held up the section of the bench he had been sanding. The grain was completely smooth, glowing under the overhead shop lights like liquid amber.
“Run your hand over it,” Matteo insisted proudly.
Luca walked over and ran his palm across the wood. “Silky smooth, Matteo. Grandpa would have given that an A-plus.”
“Now we need to carve the new date into it,” Matteo said, pointing to the underside of the tabletop where Antonio had originally carved *1987*.
Luca picked up a small V-gouge chisel. He looked at Matteo, then extended the handle toward me.
“Claire,” Luca said. “You do the honors.”
“Me?” I blinked. “Luca, this is your family’s bench. It belongs to the Morettis.”
“You bled for this wood, Claire,” Luca said softly, his eyes steady and unwavering. “You’re part of this foundation now.”
My hands trembled slightly as I took the wooden handle of the gouge. Matteo leaned in close, watching with wide eyes as I positioned the steel tip against the raw oak next to Antonio’s original initials.
Carefully, following the lines Luca guided with his hand resting lightly over mine, I carved the numbers:
*OCTOBER 2024.*
Beneath it, Luca took the tool and carved three initials side by side:
*L. M. — M. M. — C. D.*
Matteo clapped his hands together in pure joy. “Now Grandpa knows we all fixed it together!”
As I looked at our initials bound together in the ancient wood, a deep, unshakeable feeling settled in my chest. I had spent my life feeling invisible, moving quietly through wealthy houses as an unnoticed pair of hands cleaning up other people’s lives. But here, in this sawdust-scented room, I had been carved into the very bone of this family.
May you like
And I knew that no fire would ever burn that away.
***
