Chapter 43
Alessandro
Gunnar, Killian, and I step off the private plane at the small Chicago airport. There’s a black limo waiting for us. Gunnar and Killian are bickering over the Bear’s versus the Giant's defense as we cross the warm pavement.
I’m ignoring them. I have more pressing concerns.
On the flight, I did some research into the Donelly family’s outfit. My father was right, they’ve lost most of their revenue to the Italians over the years. That would make me his enemy.
The Irish syndicate now mainly deals in illegal gambling, union and labor racketeering, strip clubs and drug trafficking.
That part is good news for me. If I can offer to help them get a piece of that pie in Florida, they have no reason not to jump at expanding their territory.
Except for pride maybe. Why form an alliance with the very outfit that pushed you out of your home territory?
This all hinges on what kind of man Mac Donnelly is.
How he perceives us. And how big his ego is.
As we pile into the limo, I glare at Gunnar and Killian, who are still going at it.
Gunnar is usually quietly observing but for some reason, he seems to be enjoying the banter with Killian as he says, “Come on, man, Lawrence Taylor was the greatest defensive player in history.”
I adjust my suit jacket and get comfortable. “Will you two shut the fuck up, I can’t hear myself think.”
Gunnar grunts, side-eyeing me with a smirk. “Someone’s a bit worried about this meeting.”
“Don’t worry, mate—you’ll be grand.” Killian shoots me his hundred-watt smile as he squeezes my shoulder. A smile so similar to Lennon’s that my heart trips in my chest. “You’re bringing Da an offer I don’t think he can refuse.”
I sigh. “As long as he sees this as a toe in the door and not a whole goddamn leg.”
The buildings fly past the tinted windows as we accelerate down the highway. What I’m really nervous about is that I haven’t heard back from my father yet. What if New York shoots down this idea? What if I promise Donelly an in, and I can’t deliver?
I need Lennon to be accepted by New York as my wife; this is the only way. Marriages are for alliances not love in our world. Especially with me being a Don.
I check my phone. Still no messages. Tapping my thumb on my phone, I can’t hold back any longer. I turn to Killian. “How’s Lennon handling all this?”
His gaze burns with a quiet intensity as he studies me. “Well, she doesn’t want to meet Da. Which is going to break his heart. But I’ll explain to him she needs time. He’s a reasonable man.”
“I sure the fuck hope so,” I whisper.
I catch glimpses of the Chicago River sparkling through the trees as we travel down I-55 to Bridgeport on Chicago’s south side. The limo makes a right and glides through an urban neighborhood with stunning three-story homes nestled up against each other. You don’t see that shit in Florida.
Parked cars and oak trees line the streets.
After a few more turns, the limo parks in front of one of the tall, brick homes and we exit.
As we climb the wide stairs—colorful flowerpots perched on each step—to the front door, it opens.
A busty woman, wearing dark jeans and a green top, her gray-streaked red hair twisted on top of her head, is smiling down at us.
She holds her arms out to Killian. “Welcome home.”
He obliges her, kissing her cheek and then squeezing her shoulders. “Heard you were makin’ your beef stew. Would be a crime not to come home.” Looking back at us, he winks. “Mam, I’d like you to meet my new friends, Sandro and Gunnar.”
“Nice to meet you, Ma’am,” I say, stepping up to take her hand.
Then Gunnar offers his. “Pleasure, Mrs. Donelly.”
“No need for formalities here, lads. Call me Mary. Come on in and make yourself comfortable in the dining room.” She turns back, her warm smile and gold, dangling earrings glinting in the light. “I did indeed make my famous Irish beef stew, so we’re having an early dinner.”
She slips her arm through her son’s as we walk through the marble foyer, around a grand wood and iron staircase, and down the hall. “Tell me all about Florida. Are your brothers behavin’ themselves? Did you swim in the warm sea? Were there sharks?”
“Aye, lots of sharks, Mam,” he laughs.
I listen to their banter, noting she didn’t ask about Lennon. I wonder how she feels about her husband’s illegitimate child. Were they married when he had the affair with Lennon’s mother? If so, is she resentful of Lennon?
She leads us to a large dining room with three cathedral windows letting in the late afternoon light. Two women in uniform are laying out food on the long, dark wood table. The delicious scent has my stomach rumbling.
“Sit, sit, Mac will be here in a few minutes. He’s just finishing up a call,” Mary says, as Killian takes a seat beside the head of the table, which I assume is where Mac will sit.
I take a seat across from Killian, and Gunnar pulls out the chair beside me, sliding it over a few inches to accommodate both of our broad shoulder widths.
One of the uniformed women begins to pour red wine in our glasses.
Mary is telling us a story about the French wine when Mac strolls in. He catches Killian’s eye first.
“Hello, Son. Ah, our guests have arrived.” He takes me and Gunnar in with a sharp gaze as he makes his way to his chair at the head of the table.
The way he says “guests” could be replaced with “enemies.” It’s not welcoming at all. I stand and shake his hand. “Sandro LaRocca.”
His cold blue eyes sweep my face. “The man who has my daughter’s heart.”
I shoot Killian a questioning glare. I hadn’t planned on Mac knowing how much his daughter means to me. Now he knows he can squeeze more out of the negotiation.
Killian shrugs and holds his wine glass up to me as Mac moves on to shaking Gunnar’s hand. “What’s your nationality, son? Obviously not Italian.”
“Mostly Swedish with a bit of Norwegian, sir.”
“Brilliant, Viking culture has always fascinated me. You Swedes were much more interesting when you were feral brutes. Everything is so civilized over there now,” Mac says as he takes his seat.
I glance at Gunnar. He shrugs. “You’re not wrong.”
Mac chuckles, raises his glass and catches his wife’s eye. She’s seated beside Killian and smiles warmly at him. “A toast to my lovely wife and her culinary prowess.” We raise our glasses. He turns to me. “And a toast to new beginnings.”
He holds my gaze as we drink. My spine stiffens as I suddenly realize I’m looking at a seasoned killer who hides behind his charm. I have a feeling I’ll meet the Maco soon enough.
The conversation comes in awkward jerks and starts as we carefully get to know each other.
That is until the maid collects our dinner plates and replaces them with a slice of simple butter cake dusted with powdered sugar and dark roast coffee.
This is when Mac turns to his son, his demeanor hardening and says, “So, where is my long-lost daughter? She doesn’t want to meet me?”
Killian flicks his gaze toward me and then rests his inked forearms on the table, facing his father. “You’re going to have to give her some time, yah? It was a huge shock to her.”
Mary quietly stands and picks up her coffee cup. She makes eye contact with me. “When you boys are done with your business, come find me in the back garden.”
I nod, trying to read her expression, but she’s a closed book.
When Mary disappears around the corner, Killian sighs. “Lennon’s mother really drilled it into her all her life to fear our organization.”
Mac’s blue eyes glitter dangerously. “That doesn’t sound like my Angie. She was fearless. I still don’t know why she ran. I would’ve taken care of her and our daughter. They could’ve had the world. Instead she chose to work her fingers to the bone cleaning other people’s toilets. For fucking what?”
I watch Mac’s hand tremble as he stirs his coffee. I know that kind of rage. It’s the kind men like us don’t deal with until it's spewing hot lava over everything around us, burning it to the ground.
Keeping my tone non-confrontational, I say, “With all due respect, Mr. Donnelly, I think you’re underestimating the need for a mother bear to protect her cub.” I take a sip of the bitter coffee and set the cup back down. “How much do you know about how Angela passed?”
A wiry, gray brow rises as he meets my gaze. “She was shot, yeah? Walked into a robbery.”
I shake my head. “She was shot because she walked in on a Bratva soldier with a trafficked girl. He panicked.”
The man’s fist comes down hard on the table, rattling the dishes. I feel Gunnar stiffen beside me, but I know his anger won’t be pointed at us.
His breathing has picked up speed as he eyes me. “You know who this fucking Russian is?”
“Yes.” I hold his gaze. “A dead man.”
Killian chuckles across the table, but it’s dark and dangerous.
Mac’s teeth appear, but it's more of a snarl than a smile. “By your hand? I want details.”
By the time I’m done telling him the story of how Gunnar and I captured and tortured the Russian, his body has relaxed and there’s a new glimmer of respect in his eyes. “You did this at eighteen? Unsanctioned?”
“Yes.”
“You loved my daughter. Even then,” he whispers harshly.
It’s not a question, so I stay silent and let him probe my expression, find the answers he needs.
Finally, he leans back in his chair and seems to make a decision. “To be honest, I had no intention of letting a Dago marry my daughter.”
I shoot a glare at Killian. What the fuck? I should’ve known he’d be loyal to his father and forewarn him of my plan.
Mac continues, “But I owe you a debt. For avenging my love’s death.”
Love? Did he just say love?
I keep my expression neutral, hiding my surprise at his choice of words. I’d never heard a man in any mob family say he loved his mistress.
“So.” He pushes his chair out and stands. “Come to my office. Let’s make an agreement between men.” He glances at Killian. “Take Mr. Viking here in the sitting room for a drink, Son.”