Chapter 9 - THE DON’S DECLARATION
Two months later, spring arrived at Lake Como.
The snow had melted completely, revealing lush green lawns, blooming red roses, and crystal-clear blue waters reflecting the towering Italian Alps.
The Moretti estate was bustling with activity, but not because of mafia business.
Over three hundred high-society guests—diplomats, corporate leaders, and aristocratic families from across Europe—were gathered on the grand terrace overlooking the lake. The air was filled with classical violin music, sparkling champagne, and the sweet scent of spring flowers.
Clara stood in the grand dressing room of the main villa, looking at herself in the floor-to-ceiling mirror.
She wore an exquisite ivory silk gown that flowed down to her feet like liquid moonlight. Her hair was styled in soft, elegant waves, pinned with delicate pearl clips. There was no trace left of the frightened, clumsy laundry maid who had dropped a coffee tray six months ago. She looked like a queen.
A soft bark sounded behind her.
Clara turned around and laughed. Bruno stood in the doorway, wearing a custom silk collar with a small silver bow tie attached to it. He trotted over, sitting beside her and resting his heavy head against her silk skirt.
“You look very handsome, Bruno,” Clara smiled, gently scratching behind his ears.
The door opened softly, and Matteo walked in.
He took her breath away. Dressed in a dark charcoal tuxedo, his thick dark hair combed back, he possessed an undeniable, breathtaking power. But when his gray eyes met Clara’s reflection in the mirror, his expression melted into pure, devotion.
He walked up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist and resting his chin on her shoulder.
“Are you nervous?” Matteo asked softly in her ear.
“A little,” Clara admitted, turning in his arms to face him. “Six months ago, I was spilling bath water on your terrace. Now... I’m marrying the Don of northern Italy.”
Matteo smiled—a genuine, radiant smile that warmed his handsome face. He lifted her hand, kissing her wedding finger where a flawless ten-carat emerald-cut diamond sat.
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“Six months ago,” Matteo said gently, “a clumsy girl fell at my feet and showed me that loyalty, courage, and tenderness were real. You didn't just save my dog, Clara. You saved my soul.”
He tucked a stray curl of hair behind her ear. “The people out on that terrace aren't here to judge you. They are here to bow to you. You are the mistress of this house. You are my wife.”
