4. Chapter Four
Chapter Four
Mialina
Gualtiero De Marco’s estate is exactly what I expected. Polished surfaces, sharp lines, and not a woman’s touch in sight.
Which makes sense. Even though our former Don found love, he kidnapped his girl. And from what I’ve heard, escaping mattered more to her than making this place a home.
I wonder what will happen to it now. Mari said Mateo has no intention of moving in, preferring his house over his brother’s.
Voices begin to filter up from below, and I adjust a loose strand of hair threatening to escape my carefully pinned updo before smoothing my hands down the front of my dress. It hugs my curves in all the right ways despite its conservative cut.
I glance once more at my reflection, a small smile tugging at my lips.
I look good. Not that I’m trying to get anyone’s attention.
Or maybe I am.
Downstairs will be full of overconfident, arrogant men. Teasing them with something they can’t have has its appeal.
And I’m not thinking about one man in particular. I’m not.
I step out into the corridor and move toward the staircase, the low murmur of conversation growing with every step. When I reach the top, I peer down into the foyer. It’s full of people in black suits and dark dresses.
My gaze drifts automatically to the center of it all, where Don Gualtiero De Marco’s memorial display dominates the foyer.
Candles flicker against the dark, their glow catching on glass and polished surfaces. The white roses and lilies frame everything beautifully. It’s structured and balanced.
A small, quiet sense of satisfaction settles in me. I did well.
Then I look past it and find Mari. She stands exactly where she’s supposed to, beside Mateo, who’s positioned slightly ahead, where the flow of guests naturally turns toward him.
People approach in a steady rhythm, offering their condolences, their respect, and their allegiance. And he receives it all like he was born for it. Calm and controlled, he carries an authority that seems entirely natural to him.
Mari is included in every exchange. Her posture is flawless, her chin lifted, her shoulders set in a way that appears relaxed. But I can see the tension beneath it, the way she holds herself just a little too still.
Hosting an evening like this is far outside her comfort zone. If she could, she’d be anywhere but here. But she’d never do that to Mateo. He’s her world. For him, she’ll endure anything.
So she smiles. It’s perfect, practiced, and… wrong.
Then something shifts in the room. Conversations soften, and people subtly make way. I crane my neck to see who arrived to draw such attention.
Butterflies suddenly go haywire in my abdomen.
Wow.
The thought slips through before I can stop it.
For a moment, he takes my breath away.
He’s dressed as the occasion demands in a black suit that’s tailored to perfection, a crisp white shirt, and a dark tie pulled tight at his throat. Every line is precise and deliberate, as if even his clothing follows rules he has no intention of ever breaking.
His hair is pushed back just enough to look effortless, his jaw clean and defined, his expression unreadable.
Men straighten as he passes, their attention sharpening, while women let their gazes linger a fraction longer than necessary, appreciation flickering openly across their faces.
I roll my eyes.
Men like him belong in rooms like this. This is their world, after all, while women stand exactly where they’re told, smiling on command.
My grip tightens on the railing. His entrance alone managed to irritate me.
My gaze returns to Mari. Her smile is still there, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. I can see the strain behind it.
It’s enough to kill whatever brief attraction I felt toward the future Don of Chicago.
As if sensing my eyes on him, his head lifts and turns toward the top of the staircase. He finds me instantly… and doesn’t look away.
Goosebumps run down my arms at the intensity of his stare. I straighten my spine.
I will not be affected by him.
I descend the stairs at a measured pace, reaching the last few steps just as Mateo greets Maximo, drawing his attention away from me at last.
Good.
I move a little faster and slip past the edge of their interaction. I can still feel the weight of his presence, but I’m not close enough to be pulled into it.
A sigh of relief escapes me.
Get it together, girl. Don’t let him rattle you. He’s just a man. A self-assured, overconfident one.
I step fully into the main hall, absorbing the low hum of voices while I pretend nothing happened.
Because nothing did. The lingering burn of his gaze on my face does not count.
I walk deeper into the house, putting distance between me and the foyer, and enter the ballroom.
No one is dancing, of course. That would be inappropriate. Instead, the room is a sea of Mafia men in dark suits and women dripping in diamonds, while servers weave through them carrying trays of champagne and canapés.
I accept a flute mostly for something to do with my hands.
“So,” a gorgeous woman beside me says, her eyes flicking toward the entrance. “That would be the infamous Maximo Marco.”
She has a strong South American accent and is likely a spouse, daughter, or mistress of one of our allies from the cartel side of the business. I wonder which.
If she’s a spouse, she’s being remarkably bold about admiring another man. Men in our circles aren’t exactly known for being forgiving when it comes to their property.
I glance over despite myself.
Maximo is flanked by Aldo and a few other men I recognize from family functions. Conversation continues around him, but somehow he remains the center of it.
A few older capos immediately make their way over to greet him, but before any of them get there, Maximo spots me across the room. It’s like a fire on my skin. I look away first out of pure spite.
“He’s handsome,” the woman continues in a conspiratorial tone.
“That’s one word for it.”
She laughs softly. “You don’t sound impressed.”
“I’m Sicilian. If I fainted every time a tall man with a dark past walked into a room, I’d spend half my life unconscious on the floor.”
Her lips twitch around the rim of her glass.
Across the ballroom, Maximo exchanges greetings with the older men. There’s something telling about the interaction.
It’s not deference as such. These men are too powerful to bow. They’ve spent decades earning their place at the table. But there’s a distinct carefulness in the way they seem to speak to him. It’s like they’re weighing every word before letting it leave their mouths.
Meanwhile, Maximo remains entirely at ease. One of the capos says something that makes the others laugh. It’s that practiced, hearty sound men use to fill a room.
Maximo doesn’t join in. He doesn’t offer a polite chuckle to smooth over a silence. He takes a slow sip of his drink and replies a moment later with the calm confidence of a man who knows he’s being listened to.
“And he’s unmarried,” the woman beside me adds meaningfully, not taking her eyes off him either.
I nearly choke on my champagne. She’d like to be a candidate by the sound of it.
“Tragic for the female population, I’m sure.”
Maximo’s eyes land on me again. She notices, her gaze flicking between us with far too much interest for my liking.
“Excuse me,” I say to her, stepping away before she can say anything else.
I manage to take exactly two steps when a man appears beside me.
“Mialina Accardi, right?”
He’s handsome in the polished, carefully assembled way many mafia sons are. Expensive watch. Perfect suit. Too much confidence.
“That depends,” I reply. “Who’s asking?”
He smiles like he thinks I’m flirting. I wasn’t.
“Lorenzo Ricci,” he says, introducing himself.
I give him the polite smile I’ve been trained to use since birth.
“Are you enjoying the memorial?” he asks.
“That seems like a dangerous question, Lorenzo.”
He frowns. “Why?”
“Because there’s no correct way to answer it without sounding mildly concerning.”
Lorenzo grins. “Fair point.”
“I try to make at least one per day.”
He laughs and unfortunately takes it as encouragement. As he continues talking, I feel that static in the air again. That awareness of Maximo.
I glance across the ballroom. He’s still standing with the capos, but his attention is fixed on us.
There’s nothing casual about the way he watches Lorenzo, who follows my line of sight. His sentence cuts off mid-word. A second later, he clears his throat and steps back.
“I should go say hello to someone.”
Huh?
I watch him disappear into the crowd before looking back toward Maximo. He’s already speaking to the older men again as if nothing happened.
Did Maximo scare Lorenzo off?
No, surely that was a coincidence.
Except it keeps happening.
One man approaches confidently, only to remember somewhere else he needs to be after a single look across the room. Another excuses himself halfway through asking about my interests.
By the third time, I’m seriously annoyed. The sheer arrogance of the man!
He doesn’t even come over here. He simply stands across the room, glaring at every man who approaches me as though he’s trespassing.
How dare he? He has no claim on me. I can talk to whoever I want.
When the next man approaches, I keep the conversation going deliberately.
His name is Alessio something. Or Alessandro. Honestly, I stopped listening after he complimented my youthful glow. Who says that at a memorial?
I ask extra questions to drag the interaction out. I can practically feel the heat of Maximo’s stare now. Alessio-Alessandro shifts slightly under it, seeming uncomfortable.
“So,” I say sweetly, “what exactly do you do for your father?”
Before he can answer, his eyes dart over my shoulder again, his posture changing. A beat later, he steps back.
“Excuse me. I just remembered my father needed me.”
Seriously, are all these men such cowards? Maximo isn’t that intimidating.
I slowly turn my head.
Across the ballroom, Maximo lifts his whiskey glass to his lips with the calm composure of a man who absolutely didn’t just glare another human being out of existence.
Our eyes lock.
I find no shame or apology. If anything, he seems unimpressed that it took me this long to catch on.
The audacity.
My pulse hammers a frantic rhythm against my throat, a traitorous response to the intensity of his stare. I refuse to let him see how he affects me.
I hold his gaze for one deliberate second before smiling sarcastically and raising my champagne flute in a mock salute.
His expression doesn’t change.
Stronzo.