Chapter 10 - The True Meaning of Christmas
Two hours later, the grand DeLuca estate on the Gold Coast was dead silent.
The black town cars had departed into the blizzard, carrying the broken remnants of the family elders into permanent exile. The caterers had been dismissed with triple pay; the front doors were locked with new electronic codes; and the towering fourteen-foot Christmas tree in the grand parlor stood dark and abandoned.
Forty floors above the city, inside the soaring glass-and-limestone penthouse on Lake Shore Drive, a roaring cedar fire crackled in the black granite hearth.
The living room was warm, smelling of cinnamon, fresh pine, and roasted almonds. Through the panoramic floor-to-ceiling windows, the city of Chicago glittered like a sea of diamonds beneath the swirling white snow, the headlights on the outer drive moving like ribbons of liquid gold through the winter night.
Renata sat in the center of an oversized velvet armchair before the fire.
The soiled, dishwater-stained pastel dress had been discarded. She wore a soft, fresh pair of organic cotton pajamas in pale ivory, printed with tiny dancing reindeer. Her soft brunette hair had been washed and brushed, falling in clean, silky waves over her shoulders, smelling of sweet almond and chamomile.
Her small hands were resting flat on a plush white cashmere blanket across her lap.
Mauricio knelt on the floor before her, a silver medical tray resting on the carpet beside his knee.
He had rolled his navy shirt sleeves up to his shoulders, displaying his dense sleeves of protective ink. His handsome, stubbled face was calm, stripped of all the lethal violence that had shattered his family hours ago, filled now with an ocean of unvarnished, reverent tenderness.
With agonizing gentleness, he used a soft cotton swab to apply a cool, soothing burn ointment across the raw, red skin of her blistered knuckles.
Renata winced slightly as the medication touched a cracked cuticle, but she did not pull away. She looked down at his large, calloused fingers—fingers that were moving with the delicate precision of a watchmaker—and let out a soft, contented sigh.
“Does it sting, sweetheart?” Mauricio asked softly, lifting his dark eyes to hers.
“Only a little bit, Daddy,” Renata whispered, a tiny, brave smile curving her rosy lips. “It feels like cold ice cream now.”
Mauricio smiled—a real, luminous smile that reached all the way to his dark hazel eyes, melting the hard lines of his jaw. He carefully wrapped her small knuckles in soft, breathable white gauze, securing each band with a tiny strip of medical tape, ensuring that her fingers were free to move without friction.
When he finished, he brought both of her wrapped hands to his mouth, pressing his lips gently against her small palms, kissing each bandage with the devotion of a man performing a sacred liturgy.
“You know, Renata,” Mauricio said, resting his forearms on the edge of her armchair, looking directly into her wide, soulful brown eyes. “Daddy learned something very special today.”
Renata tilted her head, her curiosity piqued. “What did you learn?”
Mauricio reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a small, silver locket on a delicate chain. He opened the clasp, revealing a photograph of his late brother Julian laughing on a sailboat, his dark wavy hair and expressive brown eyes an exact, living mirror of the little girl sitting before him.
“I learned,” Mauricio murmured, his voice thick with an emotion that needed no translation, “that before your uncle Julian went to heaven, he gave me the greatest gift that was ever created in this world.”
Renata looked at the picture, her small fingers touching the silver frame. “He looks like you, Daddy.”
“He had your eyes, my love,” Mauricio whispered, a single tear breaking from his lower lash, tracking through his dark stubble before disappearing onto her blanket. “He had your exact, beautiful eyes. You were always a DeLuca, Renata. You were always my blood. But even if you weren't… even if we had met on the other side of the world with no names at all… you would still be my daughter. Nothing on this earth could ever change that.”
Renata’s eyes shone with a brilliant, incandescent joy. She leaned forward from the velvet chair, throwing her small, gauzed arms around his neck with all the strength her six-year-old body possessed.
“I love you, Daddy,” she whispered into his ear. “You’re the best daddy in the whole world.”
Mauricio wrapped his massive, tattooed arms around her, burying his face in her soft curls, holding her tightly against his heart as the cedar logs popped in the hearth.
May you like
Beside them, beneath their own private tree, stood a small wooden table covered in unwrapped presents—presents that were meant only for her, bought with love, waiting for the morning light.
Outside, the Chicago blizzard raged against the glass, cold and indifferent to the city below. But inside the high sanctuary of the penthouse, the foundation had been permanently reset. The orphan was home; the princess was crowned; and behind her stood Mauricio DeLuca, ready to burn the entire world before he ever let the cold touch her again.
