Chapter 8 - Promises in the Dark
That evening, the estate was quiet.
Leo was fast asleep in his race-car bed, holding his golden retriever puppy, snoring softly under his blankets.
Clara walked out onto the second-floor master balcony, wrapped in a soft cashmere shawl. The cool night breeze blew over the Brooklyn skyline, the distant lights of the Manhattan Bridge twinkling across the dark waters of the East River.
Heavy, deliberate footsteps sounded behind her.
Rico stepped out onto the balcony, holding two glasses of red wine. He handed one to Clara, stepping up behind her and wrapping his arm around her waist, resting his chin in the crook of her neck.
"What are you thinking about?" Rico asked softly.
"I was thinking about the night we met," Clara said, leaning back into his solid chest. "At Il Destino. I thought I was going to get fired. I thought you were going to have Dante throw me in the river."
"I considered it," Rico teased, his low laugh vibrating against her back. "You were very loud."
"I was standing up for your son!" Clara laughed, turning around in his arms to face him. "He was terrified, Rico."
Rico’s smile faded, replaced by an intense, profound gravity. He set his wine glass down on the stone balustrade, reaching out to take both of her hands into his own.
"I spent six months dying inside after Elena was killed, Clara," Rico said, his voice dropping into an absolute, vulnerable honesty. "I thought my heart was buried in the ground with her. I thought I was just an empty shell running a syndicate until someone put a bullet in my head."
He looked deep into her hazel eyes.
"Then you walked up to my table. You brought warmth into a house that had been cold for years. You gave Leo back his voice. And you gave me back my soul."
Rico slowly dropped to one knee on the balcony stone.
Clara gasped, her hands flying to her mouth, tears instantly welling up in her eyes.
Rico reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small, velvet box. He snapped it open, revealing a breathtaking six-carat cushion-cut diamond ring, flanked by two sapphire stones—matching the color of his own eyes.
"Clara Vance," Rico said, his voice thick with raw emotion. "You are the queen of my home, the protector of my son, and the only woman who ever dared to call me an idiot to my face. Will you marry me? Will you become my wife, and the mother of my children?"
Clara dropped to her knees right in front of him on the stone floor, just like she had done six months ago at the restaurant.
She wrapped her arms around his neck, pressing her lips to his in a passionate, desperate kiss that tasted of sweet wine and happy tears.
May you like
"Yes," Clara sobbed against his lips. "Yes, Rico! A thousand times yes!"
Rico slid the diamond ring onto her finger, lifting her up into his arms, spinning her around on the balcony under the vast, starlit New York sky, their laughter echoing over the peaceful grounds of the estate.
