Chapter 10 - SUNSHINE FRECKLES
Six months later, the garden of the Moretti estate was alive with the violent, brilliant colors of late spring.
The high stone walls were covered in climbing wisteria, their purple clusters dripping down over the newly installed security cameras that Marco had discreetly concealed behind cast-iron lanterns. The damp, dark atmosphere of the old fortress was gone, replaced by the scent of cut grass, damp earth, and blooming honeysuckle.
Near the center of the lawn, beneath the shade of an eighty-year-old oak tree, sat a low wooden picnic table.
Alessandro sat on the bench, his long legs stretched out into the grass, wearing a simple white linen shirt with the collar undone. In front of him sat a stack of architectural blueprints—the development plans for the new community center in South Jamaica, Queens, funded entirely by the newly formed Moretti-Delgado Foundation.
Sitting across from him was Sophia.
She wore a yellow sundress that caught the midday light, her sketchpad open as she reviewed the interior designs for the children's library wing. She looked vibrant, confident, her laughter mingling with the distant rumble of the city traffic.
"The reading nook needs to be larger, Alessandro," Sophia said, pointing a pencil at the blueprints. "If you put the shelves that close together, the strollers won't fit."
Alessandro looked at the drawing, then up at Sophia’s determined, beautiful face. "The engineer said that wall is load-bearing."
"Then tell the engineer to build a stronger beam," Sophia countered, her eyebrows rising with that stubborn, sharp Puerto Rican resolve he had come to adore. "You're the boss, aren't you?"
"Not in this garden," Alessandro murmured, his eyes full of warmth. "In this garden, I just sign the checks."
Sophia laughed, reaching across the table to squeeze his hand. Alessandro turned his palm up, his long, scarred fingers intertwining with hers, holding on with a quiet, unshakeable certainty.
From the other side of the lawn, a high-pitched battle cry echoed across the grass.
"Incoming!"
Emma came sprinting through the clover, wearing her beloved yellow raincoat—which was now two inches too short for her growing limbs—despite the fact that there wasn't a single cloud in the azure sky.
In her right hand, she brandished a paintbrush dripping with bright, washable orange watercolor.
Marco Varga lumbered behind her, wearing a faded gray sweatshirt and an expression of pure, unadulterated defeat. His broad, Slavic face was already covered in a series of uneven purple streaks and a lopsided green star right between his heavy eyebrows.
"Boss," Marco pleaded, stopping ten feet from the table, breathing heavily. "Control your personnel. She told me I was an ogre who needed a makeover."
"You *are* an ogre who needs a makeover, Marco," Alessandro called back, not letting go of Sophia’s hand. "The green star brings out your eyes."
Marco grunted, shook his head, and collapsed into a nearby Adirondack chair, pulling a newspaper over his face with a low, rumbling chuckle.
Emma skidded to a halt in front of Alessandro. She planted her feet wide in the grass, her small chest heaving, her dark curls plastered to her forehead with sweat.
"Al-san-dro," she panted, her eyes narrowing with professional determination.
Alessandro leaned forward, resting his elbows on the picnic table, lowering his head until his face was level with hers.
"Yes, Emma?"
"You're doing the grumpy face again," she declared.
"I'm not grumpy," he said solemnly. "I'm looking at structural engineering reports."
"Grumpy," Emma repeated, shaking her head. She dipped her brush into the little plastic water cup sitting on the edge of the wood, swirled it vigorously in the orange paint, and lifted her arm.
Alessandro didn't move. He didn't pull back.
He sat perfectly still as the cold, wet bristles touched his jawline.
*Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.*
Five bright orange dots bloomed across the rough, dark stubble of his right jaw.
Sophia watched from across the table, her chin resting on her hand, a soft, radiant smile illuminating her face.
Emma stepped back, wiping her wet nose with the sleeve of her yellow raincoat, surveying her handiwork with absolute, unyielding pride.
"There," Emma said, nodding once with the authority of an artist who had conquered the canvas. "Sunshine freckles."
Alessandro reached up, touched the wet orange paint with the tip of his finger, and looked at the smear of bright, vibrant color against his skin.
Then, he reached out, caught Emma in his arms, and pulled her onto the bench between him and Sophia, burying his face in the child’s soft curls as her bright, bubbling laughter filled the warm spring air.
The most feared man in New York did not look scary.
He did not look dangerous.
May you like
And, for the first time in thirty-four years, he did not look sad.
He was home.
