7. Chapter Seven
Chapter Seven
Mialina
Ididn’t sleep a wink last night. My mind wouldn’t shut up after everything I learned on that terrace.
I told Mari and Mamma all about the latest revelations, though I kept Maximo’s perfect solution for my dilemma to myself. It felt too much like an insult to repeat out loud.
They were just as shocked as Isa and I were. Mamma hadn’t known about any of it, but that’s hardly a surprise. Father told her nothing. He only ever presented facts to her when they were already written in stone.
Mari promised to talk with Mateo and get to the bottom of the Irish connection. That can’t happen fast enough.
I clutch my mug of coffee tighter, needing the caffeine to stay upright.
If a contract with the Irish really exists, there has to be a way out of it. I refuse to be sold off.
Not now, when I can finally see a version of the future where I’m independent. But even as the thought forms, the reality of our world follows it. There is no walking away from la famiglia. Well, not alive anyway.
What would I actually do with the rest of my life if I don’t marry someone from our circle?
Maximo was right about one thing. It is what I’ve been raised for.
Father made sure we learned everything we needed to know to become good Mafia wives and very little else. Anything that didn’t fit into that future was discouraged.
I remember the way he sneered at Mari’s sketches, calling her interest in fashion design a useless, frivolous activity that led to no good. No daughter of his would make clothes. He viewed it as something far beneath our station.
Our station. As if we were back in the eighteen hundreds.
I move into the garden of Mateo’s estate, seeking the quiet. I love it here. The grounds are vast, but it’s the rose garden that always calls to me.
I sit down on a stone bench and admire the few lingering blooms. Winters in Sicily are mild enough that buds are still opening, their deep colors vivid against the healthy green foliage.
Maybe I’ll become a florist. I’ve always loved flowers. Spending every day surrounded by them doesn’t sound like the worst way to make a living.
I bend to pull a deep red bloom closer, bringing my nose to the petals to inhale the sweet, heavy scent.
“Are roses your favorite flower?”
I startle, the stem slipping from my fingers as I instinctively clutch my chest. My heart thumps frantically against my ribs.
“Jesus. You scared me.”
I didn’t hear a single footstep. How did I not hear him approach?
I’m usually more alert than this, but apparently no sleep and too much Maximo Marco have ruined my instincts.
He sits down beside me, and the urge to slide as far to the edge of the bench as possible is overwhelming. I want space between us, but I stay exactly where I am, my shoulder inches from his.
His aftershave reaches me, something dark and expensive that smells far too good on him. My pulse jumps some more.
“You should never let your guard down, Mialina,” he says after a beat. “Enemies lurk everywhere. Even in a beautiful garden.”
I turn my head just enough to catch the sharp line of his profile.
“I wasn’t aware the roses were armed. Or are you referring to yourself?”
Maximo smiles, and I hate how much more handsome it makes him look.
“I’m the only thing in this garden you don’t need to be afraid of. If you’d just listen to reason.”
I let out a short, dry laugh.
“Reason. Is that what we’re calling a declaration of ownership now?”
He smirks at me, not even trying to argue the point.
“You haven’t answered my question about the roses,” he reminds me. “There’s a beautiful rose garden on my family’s estate. It’s where we will live once I take over as don. I’ll have it expanded for you.”
I nearly choke on the sip of coffee I just took.
A cough tears out of me, and Maximo taps my back, his hand steady and warm between my shoulder blades until I can breathe properly again.
Where we’ll live?
God, he’s really not dropping this ridiculous pursuit of me, is he?
“So thoughtful, Maximo, but unnecessary.” My voice is hoarse from coughing, and his gaze drops briefly to my mouth.
Heat spreads through me, starting where his hand touches my spine.
“You might recall from last night that I refused your gallant offer of marriage. But then you are rather old. Your memory might not be so good anymore.”
Maximo’s hand doesn’t move. If anything, his fingers firm up against my spine, his thumb tracing a slow, deliberate line that makes my skin break out in goosebumps.
Sadly, he doesn’t seem offended.
“Old?” His mouth curves. “I prefer experienced.”
“Of course you do.”
“And I assure you, stamina isn’t a concern.”
He leans in, his breath brushing the shell of my ear. Between his aftershave and the heat of him beside me, thinking straight is becoming increasingly difficult.
“But my memory isn’t the issue here. Your deflection is,” he continues. “You still haven’t told me if there’s something specific you’d like me to plant for you in Chicago.”
I set my coffee cup on the ground, buying myself a little more time to calm down.
Get it together, Mia. Don’t let him affect you.
I finally move a few inches away, putting a blessed gap between us, though the spot where his hand rested still tingles through my dress.
I turn to him and arrange my expression into what I hope passes for boredom.
“You’re seriously still stuck on flowers?” I’m proud of how calm my voice sounds when inside I’m anything but.
“I like knowing things about you. Things I can’t read in a file.”
My eyes widen. He has a file on me?
And why am I surprised? It’s how men like him operate.
Why would Maximo Marco actually talk to a woman when he can have someone compile a report?
I decide to take it as a compliment, because getting worked up about it would just amuse him, and I won’t be his morning entertainment.
I tilt my head and give him my sweetest smile.
“Of course you had to hire someone to study me. I’m far too much for you to figure out on your own.”
His smile widens. “Exactly.”
That catches me off guard.
“I like to know who I’m dealing with before I make an investment.”
So that’s how he sees me. Not as a person, but as an investment. Or, considering his plan for six heirs, perhaps broodmare is more accurate.
I keep my smile firmly in place and change tactics.
“Dandelions,” I say.
His brow lifts in a silent question.
“That’s my favorite flower.” I’m not even lying.
“A weed?”
Of course he’d see it like that. He’s so predictable. Typical for a man who thinks the world should be pruned and manicured to suit his vision.
“You’re just like everybody else, aren’t you? Missing the perfection that’s right in front of you.”
“I don’t think I do.”
The way he looks at me sends butterflies loose in my stomach.
Where is the insect spray when you need it?
“Why dandelions?”
I open my mouth, but my mind goes completely blank.
Wonderful. Maximo Marco has apparently murdered my witty retorts too.
I stare down at the green leaves at our feet, trying to ignore how close he is.
“Mia?” he prompts when the silence stretches.
Right. Dandelions.
“They start out bright yellow,” I say. “They’re cheerful, and they grow wherever they damn well please, and nobody has to fuss over them.”
He’s listening way too intently.
“And then they turn into those fluffy seed heads,” I continue. “One gust of wind and they’re gone.”
I look at him. “Nobody gets to decide where they grow next.”
Something changes in his expression.
I smile sweetly. “You can’t control a dandelion, Maximo.”
Maximo’s gaze remains fixed on me. He leans in closer.
“The thing about dandelions,” he murmurs, his eyes dropping to my mouth, “is that if you want to keep them, you have to catch them before the wind does.”
My heart stumbles, then takes off again. I try to get it back under control, but apparently Maximo Marco has hijacked it.
Needing to break the sudden tension, I reach for the rose I’d been smelling earlier.
“Ouch.”
I jerk my hand back. A thorn has pierced my fingertip, and it stings instantly. Before I can bring my finger to my mouth, Maximo catches my wrist.
My breath stalls.
He lifts my hand between us, his grip firm, and then his mouth closes over the tip of my finger.
Everything inside me seems to stop.
His tongue sweeps slowly over the tiny bead of blood. My pulse hammers in my veins as I stare at his mouth, unable to look anywhere else.
When I finally lift my gaze, Maximo is already watching me.
His eyes have gone dark. Then he sucks my fingertip deeper into his mouth, circling the tiny puncture gently.
God help me.
A soft moan slips from my lips before I can stop it. Heat rushes low through my body, my core clenching on empty space.
He releases my finger from his mouth and inspects the spot with absurd care, his thumb brushing over the inside of my wrist.
I should pull my hand away, but I can’t seem to move at all.
His face is only inches from mine.
“I intend to be faster than the wind,” he says, his voice rough.
“What?” I whisper.
I have no idea what he’s talking about. All I can see is his mouth.
“Mialina.”
Something in the way he says my name sends another flare of heat through me.
This is getting dangerously out of hand. I need to get out of here before this goes any further.
“I should g—”
He tugs me closer, and his mouth closes over mine before I can finish.
Every thought disappears.
My lips respond before my mind has a chance to catch up. He tastes faintly of coffee, and when my mouth parts beneath his, Maximo groans against my lips.
The sound goes straight through me. I press my thighs together to stem the ache building there, acutely aware of how damp my panties have become since he started sucking my finger.
He cradles my face, tilting my head as he deepens the kiss.
I should stop this.
Instead, my hands find the back of his neck. His hair is thick and soft, and I hold on as his tongue strokes over mine.
A shiver runs through me. Nothing has ever felt like this.
His teeth catch lightly at my lower lip, and another jolt of pleasure shoots through me. I lean closer without thinking, until there’s barely any space left between us.
The Irish contract. My father. Every sensible thought I had five minutes ago. None of it matters right now.
There’s only Maximo.
His mouth. His hands. And the terrifying realization that I don’t want him to stop.
My fingers leave his hair and fist his shirt as he draws me closer until I’m half in his lap. I’m kissing him back now with none of the hesitation I should have.
“That’s it, Mialina,” he murmurs against my lips.
The approval in his voice sends another wave of pleasure through me. His forehead rests on mine for a moment, both of us panting.
“Stop fighting it.” His thumb brushes over my lower lip. “Stop fighting the fact that you’re mine.”
Mine.
Just like that, my head clears.
What the hell am I doing?
My eyes widen. I’m practically sitting in Maximo Marco’s lap, kissing him.
And the worst part? I was enjoying every second of it.
“No.”
The word comes out breathless. I pull back, my heart still hammering.
I made out with the man who wants to turn me into a line item on a ledger. The man who thinks my refusal is merely something he has to overcome.
And I wanted him.
My face burns as I scramble to my feet so quickly I almost trip over the edge of the bench.
“Mia—”
I don’t let him finish. Turning, I bolt toward the house and don’t look back.
This was a big mistake.