Chapter 10 - The Queen’s Ledger
One year later.
The Moretti estate in Lake Forest was a sprawling stone manor surrounded by autumn oaks, manicured gardens, and high iron security gates.
In the sunlit executive study on the second floor, Clara Moretti sat behind a massive oak desk. She wore an elegant burgundy suit, her hair pinned back in a chic chignon, her emerald engagement ring sparkling in the afternoon light.
On her desk rested three laptops and a stack of financial ledgers.
Clara was no longer just an auditor. She was the Chief Financial Officer of Moretti Enterprises—a legitimate, multi-billion-dollar corporate conglomerate that Vincent had restructured under her brilliant guidance, transitioning their assets into real estate, green energy, and international shipping.
She had turned the Moretti empire into an unassailable financial fortress that no federal prosecutor could ever touch.
The study doors opened quietly.
Vincent stepped inside, wearing a dark blue suit, his tie loosened at his collar. He carried a small, sleeping bundle wrapped in a soft pink blanket in his arms.
Clara smiled warmly, setting down her pen, and stood up from her desk.
"Is she asleep?" Clara whispered, walking over to him.
"Finally," Vincent smiled, down looking down at their three-month-old daughter, Isabella, who slept peacefully against his broad chest. "She has her mother’s appetite and her father’s attitude."
Clara let out a quiet laugh, reaching out to gently touch the baby’s soft, tufted dark hair.
Vincent wrapped his free arm around Clara’s waist, pulling her close against his side, looking out the floor-to-ceiling windows at the golden autumn leaves falling over their estate.
"Leo told me Brandon Pierce’s appeal was denied this morning," Vincent mentioned casually, brushing his lips against Clara’s temple. "He’s serving his full thirty-year sentence in Terre Haute."
Clara paused for a second, then gave a soft, indifferent shrug. "Who?"
Vincent chuckled low in his chest, his arm tightening affectionately around her waist. "That’s my girl."
They stood together by the window—the boss who ruled the shadows, the brilliant woman who mastered the light, and the child who inherited their world.
Clara leaned her head against Vincent’s strong shoulder, listening to the steady, reassuring beat of his heart. She remembered the broken, terrified girl who had sat alone at the bar on Rush Street, drinking bourbon to numb her pain.
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That girl was gone.
In her place stood a queen—loved, protected, unshakeable, and home at last.
