Before I could find the words to thank him, the swinging door of the kitchen creaked open.
We both turned.
Isabella stood in the doorway. She was wearing oversized flannel pajamas with cartoon penguins on them, her hair a wild, beautiful mess of dark curls. Her small bare feet made no sound against the cold tile. In her arms, she clutched a plush velvet bear that Luca had brought her back from Italy two years ago.
She stopped, looking between her father and me, her wide hazel eyes cautious, scanning our faces for signs of tension.
Luca’s entire posture transformed in an instant. The mafia boss, the ruthless street prince, the cold commander vanished completely. His shoulders softened, his sharp jaw relaxed, and his eyes warmed with unconditional love.
He dropped down to one knee right there on the kitchen floor, bringing himself to her eye level.
He raised his hands and signed smoothly, with deliberate care:
*Good morning, my Peanut. Did you sleep well?*
Isabella blinked. Her hands twitched against the plush bear. For a terrifying second, I wondered if the scars left by Vanessa were too deep—if she was still afraid that moving her fingers would bring punishment.
Luca didn’t rush her. He stayed on his knee, his hands resting openly on his thighs, his face patient and utterly adoring.
Slowly, Isabella let go of the bear with one hand. She tucked it under her arm.
Then, with trembling, tentative fingers, she signed back:
*I had bad dreams, Daddy. The red dress lady was yelling.*
Luca reached out, catching her small fingers gently in his large, scarred hand, pressing a tender kiss to her knuckles.
*The red dress lady is gone,* he signed with fierce clarity. *She will never, ever enter this house again. I promise you on my life.*
Isabella took a shaky breath, then looked over at me. A faint, shy smile touched her lips.
*Good morning, Claire,* she signed.
My heart swelled until it felt bruised. I lifted my hands, smiling warmly.
*Good morning, sweet girl. Are you hungry for chocolate chip pancakes?*
Isabella’s eyes widened with pure, innocent joy. She nodded vigorously, then turned to her father and signed:
*Can Claire eat with us? At the big table?*
Luca looked up at me from his position on the floor. For the briefest fraction of a second, an enigmatic, unreadable heat flared in his hazel eyes before he turned back to his daughter.
*Claire will always have a seat at our table,* Luca signed.
As Isabella threw her small arms around her father’s neck, burying her face into his shoulder, I looked out the kitchen window toward the iron gates of the estate.
The morning sky was gray and heavy over Chicago. And somewhere beyond those high stone walls, I knew Vanessa Bellini and her powerful, vicious father were not going to let this humiliation pass quietly.
May you like
A storm was brewing. But looking at the fierce devotion in Luca Moretti’s eyes as he held his daughter, I knew he would tear the city down to ash before he let anyone dim Isabella’s light again.
***
