Chapter 9 - The First Family Portrait In A House Of Glass*
Six months later, the penthouse no longer felt like a glass cage.
The cold, sterile minimalism had slowly given way to the warm, chaotic reality of a home. A basket of colorful baby toys sat near the minimalist Italian leather sofa. A stack of children’s books rested next to high-stakes financial reports on the mahogany desk in Alessandro’s study. And the fourteenth-floor hallway no longer smelled exclusively of polished stone and espresso—it carried the faint, sweet scent of lavender, baby powder, and fresh-baked pastries.
It was a Saturday morning, bright and clear, the autumn sun pouring through the massive eastern windows and casting golden rectangles across the white marble floor.
Mia—now fourteen months old, fiercely independent, and capable of walking with a wobbly, drunken sailor swagger—was currently attempting to scale Alessandro’s legs while he tried to read the Financial Times.
“Down, little terrorist,” Alessandro muttered, though a broad, undeniable smile broke across his face as he scooped her up with effortless strength, setting her squarely on his shoulders.
Mia shrieked with absolute delight, her tiny hands immediately grabbing his hair instead of his tie this time.
I stood in the doorway of the kitchen, watching them, a fresh mug of espresso in my hand and a heart so full it felt ready to burst. The fear that had defined my life for years—the rent notices, the empty bank accounts, the threat of Marcus—was nothing more than a distant, faded memory.
The private elevator chime rang softly.
Raymond’s voice came over the intercom, warm and cheerful. “Package delivery for Mrs. Duca, and Mr. and Mrs. Duca’s personal photographer is downstairs for the annual family portraits.”
I froze, looking over at Alessandro.
He looked back, his gray eyes warm with a quiet, fierce devotion that anchored me completely.
“Mrs. Duca?” I teased, raising an eyebrow as I walked over to him. “Did I miss a meeting?”
“You missed the executive vote taken last night after you fell asleep,” Alessandro replied smoothly, setting Mia down on the rug so she could chase a rolling ball. He wrapped his arms around my waist, pulling me gently against his chest. “Unanimous approval by the board of directors. And by the baby.”
Mia paused her pursuit of the ball, looked up at us, clapped her hands together twice, and shouted a triumphant, wordless cheer.
May you like
Alessandro laughed—a rich, genuine sound that echoed through the penthouse, banishing every shadow of the past five years.
“See?” Alessandro murmured, pressing his forehead gently against mine. “She agrees. Now go change your shirt, Elena. We have a family portrait to take.”
