Chapter 7 - The Cleanup and the Reconstruction
Back at the Moretti Tower, the atmosphere was a mix of intense corporate triage and profound relief.
The executive board had held an emergency vote at noon, unanimously ratifying Luca’s full resumption of duties and issuing a formal statement condemning the fraudulent proxy filings orchestrated by Julian Vance. Within four hours of the announcement, Moretti Logistics’ stock—which had dipped slightly on rumors of the founder's illness—rebounded by six points as institutional investors realized the cancer at the top of the firm had been thoroughly excised.
I stood in Luca’s private executive office on the forty-first floor, packing my medical bag. The leather journal containing my forty-two-day log rested neatly beside my stethoscope.
The door opened quietly, and Luca walked in. He looked transformed. Without the chemical fog of the insulin poisoning, his posture was straight, his eyes sharp and clear, and the natural color had returned to his skin. He wore an open-collared white shirt, having discarded his suit jacket for the afternoon.
“You’re leaving,” he stated, his voice quiet, lacking the commanding boom of the boardroom but carrying a deep, resonant gravity.
I zipped my bag closed and looked up at him.
“My contract as your private medical caretaker concluded the moment you were safely readmitted to your estate under your mother’s protection,” I said evenly. “You don't need a medical nurse anymore, Mr. Moretti. You need an endocrinologist for a couple more weeks to fully normalize your blood chemistry, but functionally, you’re back in the driver's seat.”
Luca walked slowly across the Persian rug, stopping a few feet away from me. He looked down at the leather medical journal on the desk, then back up into my eyes.
“Forty-two days,” he murmured. “Forty-two days you sat in that house, watching me fade away, knowing everyone around me thought I was losing my mind, keeping your head down, taking notes, waiting for the exact right second to step between a needle and my arm.”
“That’s what a good nurse does,” I replied, though my voice softened slightly.
“That’s what a guardian angel does,” Luca corrected softly. He reached out, his hand hovering over the desk before resting gently on the edge of the leather journal. “My mother told me this morning that she offered you a permanent position as the head of the Moretti Family Health Foundation—a newly created oversight board with full executive backing and a seven-figure endowment.”
I blinked, genuinely surprised. “Elena didn't mention that was a permanent offer.”
“She’s a woman of few words, but she knows talent when she sees it,” Luca smiled, a warm, genuine expression that reached his eyes for the first time since I had met him. “She also told me that you haven’t taken a single day off in three years, moving from critical care unit to private concierge nursing without stopping to catch your breath.”
I looked out the massive floor-to-ceiling window at the Seattle skyline, watching the sun dip below the Olympic Mountains, painting the clouds in shades of amber and rose.
“Critical care doesn't leave much room for vacations,” I murmured.
“Then let’s change that,” Luca said, stepping closer. There was no mistaking the intent in his gaze now—no corporate coldness, no pharmaceutical haze, just a man looking at the person who had pulled him back from the edge of the grave. “The foundation needs an executive director who can build it from the ground up. And I... well, I need someone who isn't afraid to tell me when I’m ignoring my own health.”
I looked at him for a long, quiet moment, feeling the steady, warm rhythm of a new beginning settling into the room.
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“Does this job come with better hours?” I asked, a slight smile touching the corners of my mouth.
“As many as you want,” Luca answered, his hand moving to cover mine on top of the journal. “Provided we share dinner together every single evening.”
