Chapter 10 - Sanctuary in the Duca Manor
The evening sun was sinking below the western horizon when Lorenzo walked out through the grand French doors onto the main rose terrace. The sky had turned a deep, bruised violet, streaked with crimson and gold, and the cool evening breeze carried the clean scent of damp earth and late-blooming gardenias.
Beside him, Elena Rossi walked with slow, hesitant steps.
She had washed her face; her light-brown hair was pinned back neatly once more, though her eyelids were still slightly swollen from the tears she had shed. She wore a clean, simple navy-blue service dress that Mrs. Gable, the cook, had fetched for her from the upstairs linen closet. Her hands were still slightly red, but they were free, resting gently against her sides.
In front of them, skipping along the flagstones with unbridled, miraculous joy, was Mia.
The four-year-old child had completely forgotten the terror of the trash bins and the cold metal of the handcuffs. She ran ahead, her pale-champagne lace dress fluttering in the breeze, holding her one-eyed beige rabbit high in the air as if it were flying. Beside her, trotting with immense, comical patience, was Pino. The ferocious guard dog matched his stride to her tiny steps, his dark head tilted downward, nudging her gently with his snout whenever she strayed too close to the edge of the stone balustrade.
Mia giggled, wrapping one arm around Pino’s thick neck, whispering something into the dog’s upright ear that made the beast’s tail wag with a slow, contented rhythm.
Lorenzo stopped by the carved stone railing, looking out over the rolling lawns of his estate. He had removed his suit jacket, carrying it loosely over his forearm, his white shirt cuffs rolled back to expose the dark ink winding down his wrists. The heavy platinum watch gleamed in the twilight.
Elena stopped two paces behind him, her hands clasped nervously in front of her apron.
“Mr. Duca…” she began, her voice soft, trembling with a gratitude so vast it seemed to choke her throat. “I don’t know how to thank you. If you hadn’t found Mia… if you hadn’t listened to her…”
“You don’t thank me, Elena,” Lorenzo replied without turning around, his deep voice carrying a quiet, unshakeable warmth. “A man who cannot protect the people under his own roof is not a king. He’s just a butcher with nice furniture.”
He turned to face her, leaning back against the limestone balustrade. His hazel eyes were calm, clear, and stripped of the lethal darkness that had consumed him in the basement.
“Renata’s quarters on the third floor are being cleared out tonight,” Lorenzo said, his tone matter-of-fact. “The suite has three bedrooms, a private sitting room, and a terrace overlooking the orchard. Tomorrow morning, you and Mia move your things up from the carriage house.”
Elena gasped, her eyes widening in disbelief. “Mr. Duca… no, I couldn’t! That’s the head housekeeper’s suite!”
“That’s because you are the head housekeeper, Elena,” Lorenzo said, a faint, rare smile touching the corners of his mouth. “You know the books. You know the staff. And more importantly, you know what it means to be honest. Your salary will be tripled, retroactively applied to the first of the month. You will have full authority over the domestic roster.”
Tears welled in Elena’s eyes once more, but this time they were tears of pure, unadulterated joy. She pressed her hand to her heart, her lips parting, unable to find words worthy of the grace she had been handed.
“And Elena?” Lorenzo added, looking over toward the garden path.
“Yes, Mr. Duca?”
“Have the estate seamstress fix that rabbit’s ear tomorrow,” Lorenzo murmured, watching Mia spin in circles with Pino on the grass. “And tell her to find a matching glass eye. A soldier shouldn't have to fight with only one eye open.”
Elena laughed—a sweet, clear sound that echoed across the quiet terrace—and bowed her head. “Yes, sir. Right away.”
“Go on,” Lorenzo said gently. “Mrs. Gable made hot chocolate in the kitchen. Take your daughter inside before the frost sets in.”
Elena nodded, turning toward the lawn. “Mia! Come on, baby! Hot chocolate!”
Mia squealed with delight, giving Pino one last vigorous hug around his muscular shoulders before sprinting toward her mother. Elena scooped her up into her arms, kissing both of her rosy cheeks as they walked through the warm, golden light of the open French doors, their laughter trailing into the cavernous elegance of the grand house.
Lorenzo remained on the terrace alone.
Pino trotted back to his side, his heavy paws clicking against the stone, sitting down with a soft thud against Lorenzo’s knee. The master of Villa Duca looked down at his companion, resting his large, calloused hand between the dog’s cropped ears, feeling the steady, rhythmic heartbeat of the beast beneath his palm.
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Outside the gates, Chicago was waiting—a city of cold concrete, ruthless ambitions, and endless wars. But here, within the high walls of his sanctuary, the foundation had been reset.
Lorenzo took a deep, clean breath of the autumn air, the scent of roses and cold stone filling his lungs, and for the first time in twenty years, the house felt like a home.
