90 "**“STOP WAVING YOUR HANDS! YOU'RE EMBARRASSING ME!”

The months that followed the showdown at the Wisconsin border brought a profound transformation to our lives.

Luca did not make idle promises. Over the next six months, he executed the most aggressive, systematic restructuring the Chicago business landscape had seen in fifty years. He severed all ties to the underworld, transferring his shipping lanes, real estate trusts, and logistics networks into fully legitimate corporations. Rival syndicates, terrified by the complete annihilation of the Bellini family, dared not challenge him. They knew that a reformed Luca Moretti was twice as lethal as a criminal one, because he now had something pure to defend.

By late spring, the Moretti estate in Chicago had been completely remodeled.

The dark, imposing mahogany drapes and oppressive antique furnishings were replaced with open, sun-drenched spaces, light oak floors, and vibrant modern art.

The most beautiful addition, however, was built on the south lawn: a state-of-the-art sensory therapy center and deaf education academy, funded entirely by the Moretti Foundation.

It was named *The Peanut Pavilion*.

Every Tuesday and Thursday, twenty deaf and hard-of-hearing children from across the Chicago area came to the estate grounds for private tutoring, art therapy, and community building—all paid for by Luca. Leo was the student ambassador, thriving as a leader, his confidence soaring higher than I had ever dreamed possible.

My mother had taken over management of the estate’s grand greenhouse, filling our home every morning with fresh hydrangeas, lavender, and white orchids.

One sunny afternoon in early June, I sat on the stone patio overlooking the gardens. My left arm had healed beautifully, leaving only a thin, silver scar that served not as a reminder of pain, but as a medal of love.

Isabella was sitting cross-legged on an outdoor lounger, her lap covered in heavy watercolor paper. At ten years old, her dark curls were longer, her cheeks flushed with health, and her eyes sparkled with a vibrant, joyful light that had completely erased the shadows Vanessa had left behind.

She looked up at me, setting her brush down in a jar of water.

Her hands lifted, moving with fluid, effortless elegance:

*Claire, look!*

She turned the watercolor paper around.

My throat tightened with emotion.

She had painted a family portrait beneath the giant willow tree on the lawn. There was Luca, tall and handsome in a dark blue sweater, his tattoos painted in delicate silver swirls. Beside him was me, wearing a yellow sundress, my hand clasped tightly in his. Leo was sitting on a branch above us, smiling broadly, and Isabella was in the center, her hands raised in the sign for *I love you*.

Above our heads, painted in bold, gold lettering, was a single word:

**HOME.**

*Do you like it?* Isabella signed, biting her lower lip nervously.

I slid off my chair, dropping to my knees beside her lounger. I took her small hands and kissed both palms.

*I don't like it, Isabella,* I signed, watching her face fall for a fraction of a second before I added with a wide smile: *I treasure it. It is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.*

Isabella giggled, throwing her arms around my neck.

"What's this about the most beautiful thing you've ever seen?"

A deep, smooth voice rumbled from the patio doors.

Luca stepped out into the June sunshine. He wore a crisp white linen shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, dark tailored slacks, and sunglasses that he slid onto the top of his head. He looked younger, vibrant, stripped of the heavy armor he had worn for so many years.

Isabella immediately scrambled off the lounger, holding her painting up high above her head like a championship trophy.

Luca bent down, studying the painting with solemn intensity.

He traced the watercolor figures with his index finger, his hazel eyes softening with profound tenderness.

He looked at his daughter, his hands lifting to sign:

*You captured my best angle, Peanut. But you forgot one thing.*

Isabella blinked, looking at the painting, then up at him:

*What did I forget?*

Luca reached into his pocket.