Chapter 6 - Dawn Over Villa Rosalia
Sienna looked from the pumpkin box to Roman’s face.
The tiny wooden box was slightly scuffed from the chaos in the ballroom, but the brass latch remained intact. She reached out, her fingers trembling slightly, and lifted the latch.
The lid swung open.
Resting on a bed of black velvet was not Grant’s cruel note.
It was a ring.
It wasn't a standard, sterile diamond from an engagement boutique on Michigan Avenue. It was an antique masterpiece of platinum and blue sapphire, surrounded by a halo of tiny, brilliant-cut diamonds designed in the shape of climbing roses—the exact motif of the Lantern of Santa Rosalia.
Sienna gasped, her hand flying to her mouth.
“My mother’s wedding ring,” Roman said, his voice dropping into that deep, vulnerable register he used only with her. “Salvatore Blake cleaned this ring in 1982 when my father brought it to Taylor Street after it was damaged in a safe fire. Your grandfather refused to take payment. He told my father, ‘Keep it for a woman who knows what it costs to stay.’”
Roman took the ring from the velvet and looked into her eyes.
“I’m fifty-three years old, Sienna,” he said, his voice steady, stripped of all bravado. “I have spent thirty years living in this fortress, watching my back, waiting for the knife in the dark. I thought peace was something that only happened after you were dead. Then you walked into my ballroom with a measuring tape, called me an old man, and told me I was cooking my mother’s lantern.”
A soft laugh broke through Sienna’s tears.
“I don't want a quiet life,” Roman continued, stepping closer until his forehead rested gently against hers. “I want a life with you. I want your sketches on my desk. I want your temper in my halls. I want every room in this house to smell like your perfume. Will you marry me, Sienna?”
Sienna looked at the ring, then up into the fierce, devoted eyes of the man who had bled for her in the dark.
“Only if I can remodel the conservatory,” she whispered, her voice thick with happy tears.
Roman smiled—a full, brilliant, beautiful smile that erased twenty years of shadows from his scarred face.
“The whole damned house is yours, little bird,” he said.
He slipped the platinum ring onto her left ring finger. It fit perfectly, as if Salvatore Blake himself had measured her hand forty years before she was born.
Roman pulled her into his arms and kissed her as the morning sun flooded the study, chasing away every ghost that had ever haunted the halls of Villa Rosalia.
***
Six months later, on the first Saturday of May, the grand lawn of Villa Rosalia hosted the most anticipated event in Chicago’s history.
The air was warm, scented with the blossoming lemon trees from the restored glass conservatory and the fresh, clean breeze coming off Lake Michigan. Five hundred guests sat in rows of white iron chairs on the manicured lawn overlooking the water.
There were no masks today.
There were no dark velvet curtains or shadowy corners.
The floral arches were made of white peonies, pale blue hydrangeas, and trailing ivy, designed by Mia from Logan Square, whose small floral shop now had an exclusive contract with Duca Enterprises. The catering was handled entirely by family-owned kitchens from Pilsen and Little Italy, their fragrant dishes served on antique silver platters that had been polished to perfection.
At the edge of the lawn, standing near the lemon trees, Enzo Varga wore a custom-tailored charcoal suit that actually fit his massive frame. He had an unlit Cuban cigar tucked behind his ear and a small plate of Sicilian cannoli in his hand.
“Best wedding Chicago has seen in fifty years,” Enzo grunted to Marcus Vance, who was standing nervously nearby, nursing a glass of sparkling water.
“Indeed,” Marcus agreed hastily, adjusting his collar. “Mrs. Duca has exceptional taste.”
“Call her Sienna,” Enzo said, taking a bite of a cannoli. “She likes people who don't hide behind titles.”
Down the stone path lined with blue hydrangeas, Roman Duca stood at the altar beneath the ancient stone archway overlooking the lake. He wore a midnight-blue tuxedo, his silver-streaked hair catching the spring sun, his scarred face completely relaxed, filled with a deep, serene joy that had silenced every rumor in the city’s political salons.
Beside him, the Lantern of Santa Rosalia sat on a stone pedestal—on permanent loan from St. Brendan’s Hospital for the day, its blue enamel glowing in the afternoon light.
The string quartet began to play.
The heavy iron doors of the conservatory opened.
Sienna stepped onto the stone path.
She wore an ivory silk gown that hugged her curves with regal, unapologetic confidence, the train trailing three yards behind her over the grass. Her dark curls were pinned back with tiny platinum roses, and on her finger, the sapphire ring caught the Chicago sun like a piece of captured sky.
She didn't look down. She didn't shrink.
She walked with her head high, her eyes locked onto Roman, taking up every inch of room she had earned in this world.
As she reached the altar, Roman stepped down to meet her, taking both of her hands in his.
“You’re late, Mrs. Duca,” he murmured, his eyes shining with unshed tears.
“The florist was nervous,” Sienna whispered back, her smile radiant enough to eclipse the sun. “I had to handle it.”
Roman leaned down, ignoring the five hundred guests, ignoring the cameras waiting at the gate, ignoring the entire world beyond the bluff.
May you like
“Handle me instead,” he whispered.
And as the church bells from St. Brendan’s began to ring across the city of Chicago, Roman Duca pulled his wife into his arms, sealing a promise that no darkness, no knife, and no ghost could ever break again.
