Chapter 5 - Sanctuary
The days following Christmas were the quietest DeLuca House had seen in decades.
The snow storm had cleared, leaving Long Island blanketed in a brilliant, blinding white under a clear blue sky. Roman had canceled all external meetings, delegating family business to his underbosses, refusing to leave the estate grounds.
Claire remained in the primary suite.
At first, she felt uncomfortable—unaccustomed to being waited on. When Mrs. Patel brought up breakfast trays filled with poached eggs, fresh berries, and hot coffee, Claire had tried to stand up to help carry the dishes.
"Sit down, child!" Mrs. Patel had laughed warmly, pressing Claire back into the soft cushions of the window seat. "Mr. DeLuca’s orders are absolute. You are a guest of honor now. The kitchen staff is practically celebrating downstairs!"
"Celebrating?" Claire asked, blushing softly.
"Of course!" Mrs. Patel beamed. "We all hated Ms. Mercer. The way she treated you was monstrous. When Mr. DeLuca threw her out into the blizzard, Chef Alvarez opened a bottle of vintage champagne for the entire prep team!"
Claire smiled, a soft, genuine laugh bubbling up from her chest.
Every afternoon, Roman returned to the suite after handling his morning calls. He didn't act like a dangerous mob boss around her; he was attentive, patient, and deeply protective.
On the third day, he arranged for a private limousine to bring Claire’s sister, Lily, from Connecticut to the estate for a visit.
When the grand doors of the private sitting room opened and Lily was wheeled inside by a nurse, Claire burst into tears, running across the rug to wrap her arms around her younger sister.
"Claire!" Lily cried, hugging her tight. "Oh my gosh, Claire! Look at this place! Is this real?"
"It's real, sweetie," Claire sobbed, kissing Lily’s hair.
Roman stood by the fireplace, his hands tucked into his pockets, watching the two sisters embrace. A soft, rare smile touched his lips.
Lily looked over Claire’s shoulder at the tall, broad-shouldered man standing by the hearth. "Are you Mr. DeLuca?"
"I am," Roman said, stepping forward and extending his hand with gentle respect. "It's an honor to meet you, Lily."
"Did you really pay off Dad's debt?" Lily asked, her young face serious. "Claire has been working herself to death for six years because of that money."
"It's gone, Lily," Roman promised softly. "Your sister never has to worry about money again. And neither do you."
Lily looked at Roman, then looked at Claire, noticing the way Roman’s eyes rested on Claire’s face—with a fierce, protective devotion that couldn't be hidden.
"I like him, Claire," Lily declared with childhood frankness. "He's much better than that mean lady on the news."
Claire blushed furiously, while Roman let out a deep, booming laugh that warmed the entire room.
That evening, after Lily had been settled into a ground-floor suite designed for accessibility, Roman and Claire sat together on the wide balcony overlooking the Sound. The air was crisp, but a large outdoor heater and thick faux-fur blankets kept them cozy.
Claire leaned her head against Roman’s broad shoulder, feeling the solid, rhythmic beat of his heart.
"I still feel like I'm going to wake up," Claire murmured, tracing the soft pattern of his sweater. "Like I'm going to wake up in my tiny apartment, alarm going off at 4:30 AM, worrying about the rent."
Roman wrapped his heavy arm around her waist, pulling her soft body snugly into his lap. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, breathing in the scent of sweet vanilla and fresh lavender.
"You're not dreaming, Claire," Roman whispered against her skin, sending shivers of pleasure down her spine. "This is your life now. With me."
"Roman..." Claire turned her head, looking into his dark eyes. "What about your family's empire? What about the people who expect you to marry someone from high society?"
Roman’s expression turned to iron. "My father spent his life trying to buy respectability from people like the Mercers. Look where it got him—surrounded by snakes who would sell his memory for a tax break. I rule this family now, Claire. I choose who stands beside me."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, velvet-lined box. He opened it, revealing a stunning vintage ring set with a flawless cushion-cut yellow diamond, surrounded by tiny platinum leaves.
Claire gasped, her breath catching in her throat. "Roman..."
"This was my grandmother’s ring," Roman said, taking her hand. "She came from a small village in Sicily. She wasn't high society. She was a woman who built this family with love, strength, and quiet dignity. Just like you."
He looked directly into her eyes. "I don't want a marriage of convenience, Claire. I want a marriage of truth. Will you stay with me? Will you be my wife?"
May you like
Claire looked at the ring, then at the man holding it—a man who had saved her life, protected her sister, and seen her true beauty when no one else had.
"Yes," Claire whispered, tears of pure joy shining in her eyes. "Yes, Roman. I will."
