Chapter 8 - The Aftermath
By midnight, the storm outside had begun to clear, leaving behind a quiet, damp chill that hung over the Atlantic coast.
The Moretti mansion was quiet again, though three additional armed guards now patrolled the perimeter grounds. Raymond DeLuca had been quietly handed over to a specialized federal task force—along with a massive ledger of evidence provided by Dominic that exposed a multi-state corruption network involving rival syndicates in New York.
In exchange for Raymond's full confession and the surrender of his offshore accounts, the Moretti family secured a permanent non-prosecution agreement regarding their legitimate corporate logistics holdings.
Inside the mansion’s warm, mahogany-paneled library, a crackling fire burned in the stone hearth.
Victor sat in his favorite high-backed leather chair near the fire, a soft wool blanket draped over his legs. For the first time in six months, he wasn't scowling. He held a glass of warm apple cider in his good hand, watching his daughter Sophia adjust his pillows.
“Dad,” Sophia said gently, her eyes red from crying, “I’m... I’m so sorry. I was so angry about the business, about the nurses... I didn't see what Raymond was doing.”
Victor reached up, patting his daughter’s hand with his weakened left hand—his movement noticeably smoother and stronger than it had been two weeks ago.
“You’re my daughter, Sophia,” Victor said softly. “You’re loud, you’re stubborn, and you complain too much. But you’re a Moretti. I never believed you would hurt me.”
Sophia smiled through her tears, kissing her father’s forehead before stepping out of the room to leave him with his nurse.
Claire stood near the library desk, packing her medical bag for the night. Her formal nursing shift was officially over, and a fresh, fully vetted team of permanent residential nurses was scheduled to arrive the following morning.
She zipped her leather bag and walked over to Victor’s chair.
“Well, Mr. Moretti,” Claire said, smiling down at him. “Your vitals are completely stable. Your blood pressure is lower than mine. And you haven't thrown a single glass in twenty-four hours.”
Victor looked up at her, his sharp grey eyes shining with warmth. “So you’re leaving me?”
“My contract was for temporary crisis intervention,” Claire replied gently. “You don't need a crisis nurse anymore, Victor. You just need to keep playing chess and taking your real pills.”
Victor let out a long sigh, reaching out to tap his cane against the floor. “Nurse number eight,” he grumbled affectionately. “The only woman in Boston brave enough to call me an old fool to my face.”
He looked toward the open library doors, where Dominic was standing, leaning against the doorframe, watching them quietly.
“You should thank her properly, Dominic,” Victor said, raising an eyebrow at his son. “Before she realizes she can get a much quieter job somewhere else.”
Dominic pushed off the doorframe, walking into the room. He wore a simple white linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, looking relaxed, unguarded, and striking.
“I plan to,” Dominic said smoothly.
He looked at Claire, gesturing toward the French doors that opened onto the stone patio overlooking the ocean. “Walk with me, Claire?”
May you like
Claire looked at Victor, who gave her a subtle, approving nod.
“All right,” Claire said. “Five minutes.”
