Chapter 8 - The Return to the Light
Two months later.
The icy winter rain had given way to the first soft snow of December. Chicago was draped in a blanket of pristine white, the city lights reflecting off the snow-covered trees along Michigan Avenue.
In the grand ballroom of the Duca Estate in Lake Forest—a historic thirty-acre property that Roman had reopened and completely renovated for our family—music and laughter filled the air.
It was Christmas Eve.
The grand ballroom was decorated with a towering thirty-foot pine tree covered in gold ribbon, crystal ornaments, and thousands of twinkling white lights. A massive marble fireplace roared with a warm, crackling fire.
Dozens of guests—legitimate business partners, family friends, high-ranking associates, and political figures—filled the room, enjoying expensive wine and gourmet catering.
In the center of the room, Luca, Mara, and Sophia were playing with their cousins, running across the polished hardwood floor, their joyful laughter echoing up to the vaulted ceiling.
Luca was dressed in a mini tuxedo, holding a wooden sword his father had carved for him. Mara was wearing a velvet red dress, twirling in front of the tall mirrors, while Sophia sat near the fireplace, methodically reading a book on naval architecture that Roman had bought her for her birthday.
I stood near the floor-to-ceiling glass doors leading out to the snowy terrace, holding a glass of vintage champagne.
I wore an off-the-shoulder emerald velvet gown that hugged my curves, my hair falling in soft waves over my shoulders. I looked at my children, feeling a profound, overwhelming sense of warmth spread through my chest.
Six years ago, I was sitting in a freezing two-bedroom apartment, counting pennies to buy milk. Today, my children were running through a palace, safe, loved, and surrounded by an impenetrable wall of protection.
Two large, warm arms wrapped around my waist from behind.
Roman pulled me back against his chest, resting his chin on my shoulder, his warm breath fanning across my neck. He wore a sharp black tuxedo, looking handsome, powerful, and utterly devoted.
"What are you thinking about, mia vita?" Roman murmured, using the Italian term of endearment he reserved only for private moments.
"I'm thinking about Wacker Drive," I whispered, leaning my head back against his shoulder. "I'm thinking about the night I sent three terrifyingly stubborn seven-year-olds into the middle of your convoy."
Roman chuckled—a deep, rich sound that vibrated against my back. He turned me in his arms until I was facing him, his dark eyes filled with endless warmth.
"It was the best ambush of my life," Roman said softly, reaching up to gently touch the sapphire necklace resting against my collarbone. "I spent six years living in a dark house, Elena. I thought I had everything a man could want—money, power, territory. But the moment those three kids stopped my car, I realized I had been living like a beggar."
He leaned down, pressing his lips gently against my forehead, then my cheek, and finally settling against my lips in a slow, sweet, possessive kiss.
"Look at them," I whispered against his mouth, gesturing toward our children playing near the Christmas tree.
Roman turned his head, watching Luca laugh as he defeated his cousin in a pretend sword fight, while Mara pulled Sophia into a dance.
"They have your strength, Elena," Roman said proudly. "And your sharp mind."
May you like
"And your stubbornness," I added with a smile. "And your terrifying eyes."
Roman smiled—a real, genuine, joyful smile that erased every line of hardship from his face. "Then God help anyone who tries to cross them when they grow up."
