Chapter 7 - The New Dawn at the Estate
Spring came to Chicago four months later.
The thick, white snow that had buried the Moretti estate melted away, replaced by vibrant green lawns, blooming tulips, and the warm, golden sunlight of May.
The Moretti crime syndicate was gone.
In the wake of Victor’s arrest and the mountain of evidence handed directly to the federal prosecutors, Dominic had executed a complete, legally binding dissolution of his family’s illegal operations. He turned state’s witness against the remaining regional bosses, traded his criminal holdings for immunity, and liquidated his billions into legitimate real estate development funds and medical research foundations.
The high-voltage fences and armed guards were gone from the perimeter. The ominous black cameras were removed from the ceilings, replaced by bright skylights and fresh flower arrangements.
On the sun-drenched stone terrace overlooking the green lawns, Elena sat in her wheelchair.
She was no longer the pale, sunken ghost who had hidden in the dark three years ago. Her cheeks were full and pink, her dark hair glowing in the sunlight as she laughed, holding a set of physical therapy resistance bands.
Beside her stood a physical therapist, guiding her as she pushed her feet against the stone floor, her leg muscles twitching with the first faint, miraculous signs of returning nerve function.
Standing near the kitchen doors, watching them with a warm smile, was Ellie Whitfield.
She wore a fresh, light green summer dress, a clean white apron tied around her waist, carrying a tray loaded with iced lemonade and freshly baked lemon-blueberry scones.
A pair of heavy leather dress shoes clicked against the stone terrace.
Dominic walked out into the sunlight. He wore a simple navy linen shirt with the collar open, looking ten years younger. The dark, haunted circles under his eyes were completely gone.
"How are her legs today?" Dominic asked, stopping beside Ellie.
"The doctor says she might be able to walk with a cane by Christmas," Ellie said softly, her heart swelling with pride as she watched Elena take a small, assisted step forward. "She works harder than any patient I've ever had."
Dominic turned to look at Ellie.
He reached out, taking the heavy wooden tray from her hands and setting it down on a nearby patio table.
"You don't need to carry heavy trays anymore, Ellie," Dominic said gently.
Ellie laughed—a rich, booming sound that drifted across the sunny garden. "Mr. Moretti, if I stop working, I’ll get lazy. And besides, someone has to make sure you eat your vegetables. You still look too thin."
Dominic smiled—a rare, genuine smile that transformed his sharp face into something warm and deeply handsome.
"I called the agency yesterday," Dominic said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a official legal document. "I bought out your contract. You're no longer an employee here, Eleanor."
Ellie blinked, her smile faltering for a brief second. "You're firing me?"
"No," Dominic replied, stepping closer to her, his slate-grey eyes fixing onto hers with absolute sincerity and profound respect. "I'm offering you a partnership. Elena and I are establishing the Whitfield Rehabilitation Center downtown—a hundred-bed facility for patients with spinal injuries who can't afford private care. I want you to be the Director of Patient Care."
Ellie stared at the document in his hands. Her throat tightened, her dark eyes filling with tears as she read the name of the foundation printed in gold lettering at the top: The Eleanor Whitfield Foundation for Spinal Recovery.
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"Dominic..." she whispered, her voice cracking. "I'm just a hospice nurse from southern Illinois."
"No," Dominic corrected softly, taking her broad, calloused hand into his own and holding it tightly. "You are the woman who saved my family when everyone else was trying to sell it. You taught me that strength isn't built with guns or fear—it's built with love, truth, and a very heavy iron pan."
