Chapter 8 - The Grand Reopening
Six months later.
The spring sun was shining brightly on Elm Street, warming the brick facades of the neighborhood shops. A large, elegant crowd had gathered outside number 412, where a brand-new, polished mahogany storefront stood beneath a green canvas awning.
The gold lettering on the glass read: Sartoria Mitchell & Bianco.
The shop was beautiful. The interior was lined with rich walnut wood, massive crystal mirrors, and racks of the finest silks, wools, and linens imported from Milan. In the center of the room stood an antique glass display case, and inside it, resting on a velvet cushion, was a pair of heavy, eleven-inch steel upholstery shears, polished until they gleamed like silver.
Daisy stood behind the counter, looking radiant. She wore a vintage-style dress of buttercup yellow, her dark hair pinned up in soft curls, her red lipstick perfect. On her left hand, the sapphire ring caught the light of the spring afternoon.
The bell above the door chimed, and the crowd outside parted as Lorenzo Bianco walked into the shop. He wore a custom-tailored three-piece suit of charcoal wool—the very fabric Daisy had been sewing the night of the attack. He looked every bit the king of Chicago, but the moment his eyes landed on Daisy, his face softened into an expression of pure, unadulterated devotion.
"You're late, Mr. Bianco," Daisy said, a mischievous spark in her brown eyes as she checked the gold watch on her wrist. "Two minutes late."
Lorenzo came around the counter, ignoring the watchful eyes of Marco and the neighborhood locals who were peering through the window. He caught her by the waist, pulling her full, soft body flush against his.
"I had to sign the final lease agreements for the riverfront properties, Mrs. Bianco," he murmured, his voice a low, seductive vibration against her lips. "The city council was being difficult. I had to remind them who handles their logistics."
"Did you break any legs?" she whispered against his mouth.
May you like
"Only metaphorically," Lorenzo smiled, his thumb caressing her hip. "Now, cut the ribbon, Daisy. The neighborhood is waiting to see the queen of Elm Street."
Daisy took a pair of functional gold scissors from the counter, walked to the front doors with her husband’s arm wrapped securely around her waist, and cut the silk green ribbon, officially reopening her family's legacy to a chorus of cheers and applause.
