Chapter 14 - The Unlocked Door
Six months after the storm, Hallowmere Manor hosted its first annual autumn gala—not for syndicate capos or corrupt municipal judges, but for the families, dockworkers, and scholarship recipients of the Hallowmere Foundation.
The grand ballroom was illuminated by hundreds of candles flickering in wrought-iron chandeliers, classical violin music drifting softly from the minstrel gallery, and the rich scent of roasting chestnuts and autumn wine filling the air.
Corrie stood near the tall arched windows wearing an emerald-green silk evening gown, watching Lily—now five years old and brimming with laughter—spin around the polished oak floor in a sparkling dress while the golden retriever trotted happily beside her.
"She looks like a princess who accidentally swallowed a rocket launcher," a familiar, low voice observed from right beside her ear.
Corrie turned, smiling as Domenico stepped into her field of view. He wore a classic black tuxedo that fit his broad shoulders with tailored precision, looking every bit the master of the estate—yet his arm immediately came around her waist, pulling her close against his side where the world couldn't touch them.
"She's energetic," Corrie corrected, leaning her head against his shoulder. "She gets it from her mother's side."
"Unlikely," Domenico murmured dryly. "Her mother spent four months hiding behind floor rags and survival arithmetic."
"And her mother's protector spent those same four months lurking in dark hallways waiting for the right moment to burn an empire down," Corrie countered with a playful spark in her eye.
Domenico smiled, a warm, genuine expression that belonged entirely to her. He raised his flute of champagne. "To clean floors."
"And unlocked doors," Corrie added, clinking her glass against his.
May you like
Across the room, through the double doors leading toward the grand staircase, the third-floor landing was quiet, bathed in the soft amber light of vintage wall sconces. The old oak grain was polished to a brilliant, unblemished sheen, reflecting the light without a single shadow left to hide in.
And in that quiet house on the Rhode Island cliffs, where the wind beat in vain against stone and sea, no one ever had to look over their shoulder again.
