Chapter 10 - The Garden of Hayes
Ten months later.
The summer sun beamed down warmly over the rolling green hills of a private, fifty-acre estate in the Berkshires. The air was sweet with the scent of blooming hydrangeas, lavender, and freshly cut grass.
There were no boardrooms here. No press photographers. No dynastic arrangements built on corporate greed and forged signatures.
Under the shade of a massive weeping willow tree, a long wooden table was set with simple white linen, wildflowers in mason jars, and a feast of homemade pasta, fresh bread, and grilled peaches.
Down by the pond, four boys in matching linen shirts and rolled-up shorts were laughing hysterically, throwing tennis balls into the water for a golden retriever puppy who leaped in with wild, clumsy enthusiasm.
"Julian, stop pulling the dog's tail!" Clara called out from the terrace, wiping her hands on an apron.
She walked down the stone steps toward the lawn. She wore an effortless ivory sundress that caught the summer breeze. Her chestnut hair was down, shining in the sunlight, and the laugh lines around her eyes were deep, relaxed, and radiant.
I stepped up behind her, wrapping my arms around her waist, pulling her back against my chest.
"They aren't hurting him," I murmured, kissing the soft spot behind her ear, right above her collarbone. "If anything, that puppy is running them into the ground."
Clara leaned back into my embrace, letting out a contented sigh as she watched our sons.
"I still wake up sometimes," she whispered softly, "thinking it’s a dream. Thinking I’m back in that tiny, drafty apartment in Maine, wondering how I was going to pay the heating bill."
"It's not a dream, Clara," I said, resting my chin on her shoulder.
Vincenzo had been convicted on federal charges of wire fraud, grand larceny, and felony endangerment four months ago. He was currently serving an eight-year sentence in a minimum-security federal medical facility in Pennsylvania. The Moretti empire had been restructured: the maritime logistics arm had been privatized, forty percent of the profits were now permanently redirected into pediatric medical foundations, and the toxic old-money networks of Boston had been thoroughly dismantled.
I had stepped down from daily operations, leaving Marcus Vance to run the corporate machinery while I managed the family foundations from here, in the mountains, where my children could breathe clean air.
"Dad! Look!" Theo shouted, pointing across the pond. "The dog caught a frog!"
"Don't let him eat it, Theo!" Nate yelled, sprinting across the mud, his sneakers splashing water everywhere.
Clara laughed, shaking her head. "Four boys, Dominic. You're going to have to teach them how to drive in ten years. All at once."
"We'll buy a fleet of tractors," I smiled.
I gently turned Clara around in my arms so she was facing me.
The playful smile faded from my lips, replaced by a quiet, fierce devotion that had only deepened with every passing day.
From my linen trouser pocket, I pulled out a small, simple wooden box carved from cherry oak. No Harry Winston diamonds. No four-carat corporate statements meant to impress high-society matrons.
I opened the box.
Inside lay a delicate, handcrafted platinum band set with four small, brilliant sapphires—one for each of our sons—surrounding an uncut, raw Maine tourmaline stone we had found together on a beach in Kennebunkport during our college days.
Clara’s breath hitched. She pressed her fingers to her lips, her eyes instantly shining with tears.
"Clara," I said, my voice steady, filled with the absolute peace of a man who had finally found his true home. "Six years ago, I let them take you away because I was blind. Ten months ago, you brought me back to life. You gave me my sons. You gave me my soul."
I dropped down onto one knee in the soft clover of the meadow.
"I don't care about dynasties, Clara. I don't care about empires. The only title I ever want to hold is the one where I am your husband and their father. Will you marry me?"
Before she could speak, the sound of four pairs of small feet came pounding across the grass.
Leo, Julian, Theo, and Nate skidded to a halt around us, the golden retriever puppy bounding between them, barking happily.
"Mom, say yes!" Leo demanded, crossing his arms.
"Yeah, say yes so we can eat the cake!" Julian chimed in.
"Julian only cares about cake," Theo whispered loudly.
"Do the neck thing, Dad! Do the neck thing!" Nate cheered.
Clara looked down at our four boys, covered in pond water, mud, and grass clippings, then looked down at me, kneeling in the dirt with the simple ring in my hand.
A tear slipped past her lashes, trailing over the small crescent scar above her eyebrow.
May you like
"Yes," she whispered, her voice overflowing with love. "A thousand times, yes."
I slid the ring onto her finger, rose to my feet, and pulled her into a deep, sweeping kiss as our four sons erupted into triumphant, chaotic cheers, jumping up and down, their identical laughter echoing across the hills, carrying the true, unbreakable Moretti legacy into the bright and boundless summer sky.
