Chapter 7 - The Recovery at Sea
Three weeks later.
The quiet coastal town of Newport, Rhode Island, was bathed in the brilliant pink and gold light of a late spring sunset.
A ninety-foot motor yacht named The White Falcon rocked gently at its private berth near the end of a secluded pier.
In the master cabin below deck, the air was warm and smelled of sea salt and fresh lilies.
Domenico sat up in the plush leather bed, his chest wrapped in thick white bandages, wearing a loose black linen shirt. His dark hair was slightly longer, falling over his forehead, giving him a softer, rugged appearance.
Sitting on the edge of the bed beside him was four-year-old Lily.
She was wearing a pink summer dress, her brown curls tied in pigtails, holding a wooden toy sailboat that Domenico had carved for her during his recovery.
“And then the sailboat went fast across the water, Uncle Domenico?” Lily asked, her bright hazel eyes—so much like Corrie’s—shining with wonder.
Domenico smiled—a genuine, warm, gentle smile that transformed his entire face, erasing every trace of the terrifying mafia don.
“That’s right, little one,” Domenico said softly, tapping the wooden hull. “It went faster than the wind, all the way to the safe harbor.”
The cabin door opened gently.
Corrie stepped inside, wearing a simple white sundress, carrying a tray of fresh soup and tea. She stopped in the doorway, watching the man who had terrified an entire city tenderly playing with her daughter.
A deep, overwhelming warmth filled her chest.
“Lily, sweetheart,” Corrie said softly. “It’s time for your evening medicine. Rosa is making strawberry shortcake in the galley.”
“Yay! Shortcake!” Lily squealed, carefully setting the toy sailboat on the nightstand, giving Domenico a gentle hug around his good shoulder before running out of the cabin.
Corrie set the tray down on the table and walked over to the bed.
She sat down beside him, reaching out to gently adjust the collar of his linen shirt, her fingers lingering against his warm skin.
“How is the shoulder feeling today?” she asked softly.
“Better,” Domenico replied, his hand coming up to cover hers, trapping her fingers against his chest. “The doctor said the stitches come out on Friday.”
Corrie looked into his dark eyes, her expression turning serious.
“I signed the paperwork today, Domenico,” she said quietly.
Domenico’s hand stilled. “The syndicate papers?”
“I dissolved the Boston financial network,” Corrie explained, her voice steady and full of purpose. “I transferred all forty million dollars from the offshore accounts into a permanent medical foundation for children with congenital heart conditions in New England.”
Domenico stared at her for a long moment, then a deep, quiet laugh escaped his chest.
“My uncle Eduardo is probably turning in his grave,” Domenico murmured, his dark eyes crinkling with affection.
“And the ledger?” Corrie asked softly.
May you like
Domenico reached under his pillow, pulled out the heavy steel box, and handed it to her.
“It’s yours to burn, Corrie,” Domenico whispered. “You owe no one. This house, this family, this life... it’s clean now.”
