Chapter 10 - The Sovereign Inheritance
By six o'clock the following morning, the first golden rays of the autumn sun filtered through the tall, arched windows of Mr. Duca’s private study, bathing the grand mahogany room in brilliant light.
The secret bookcase door had been secured, the traitors purged, and the fifty percent commercial land deeds officially restored to the Harper family.
Mr. Duca sat behind his massive mahogany desk, reviewing a thick stack of legal transfer documents prepared by his senior corporate attorneys.
Standing beside his desk were Grace Harper, dressed in an elegant dark blue wool dress, and her mother Eleanor. Grace looked healthy, her dark hair pinned neatly, her posture graceful and proud.
Sitting right on top of the massive mahogany desk, swinging her small shoes playfully, was six-year-old Mia. She wore a brand-new pale-pink party dress with a white lace collar, holding baby Lily safely on her lap.
Mr. Duca set his gold fountain pen down, pushing the signed documents across the desk to Grace.
"This document officially validates the Harper family's fifty percent ownership of the Beacon Hill shipping terminals," Mr. Duca announced softly, his gravelly voice filled with absolute authority. "You and your daughters are now co-owners of the commercial foundation."
Grace looked down at the documents, tears of deep gratitude brimming in her dark eyes. "Mr. Duca... we can never repay you for what you've done."
"You don't need to repay me, Grace," Mr. Duca said, looking at little Mia. "This house is your home now. You are no longer staff here. You are family."
Mia set her wooden toy down on the desk, looking at Mr. Duca with her wide, curious brown eyes.
"Mr. Duca?" Mia asked softly.
Mr. Duca leaned forward, his rugged face softening completely. "Yes, Mia?"
"Can I still help you clean your desk sometimes?"
Mr. Duca let out a deep, booming laugh that filled the wood-paneled study with warmth and light. He reached out his broad, tattooed hand, gently patting her small head. "Only if you leave the heavy vacuum in the closet, Mia."
Suddenly, the private satellite phone sitting on his desk began to chime with a sharp, encrypted ringtone from an untraceable server in London.
Mr. Duca picked up the device, pressing the receiver to his ear.
A smooth, unfamiliar voice with a heavy European accent spoke through the speaker:
"Mr. Duca... congratulations on securing Boston and restoring the Harper deeds. But the international council in London has just received news that your late uncle's secondary vault in Geneva contains a third document... and the European directors are demanding an immediate summit regarding the Atlantic shipping lines."
Mr. Duca’s dark eyes narrowed into razor-sharp focus. He did not flinch. He slowly looked over at Grace, Eleanor, and little Mia, his broad posture returning to that of an invincible, unyielding sovereign guarding his household.
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"Tell London," Mr. Duca said quietly, his voice sharp as steel, "that if they want to speak to the Duca family... they can come to Boston."
He disconnected the call, set the phone down, and wrapped his arm around the chair as the golden morning sun bathed his private study in triumph, safety, and light.
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