11. Chapter Eleven
Chapter Eleven
Maximo
Snow drifts past the floor-to-ceiling windows of my penthouse, softening the sharp edges of Chicago below. From up here, the city looks quieter than it really is. Cleaner. Controlled.
It’s an illusion. Our family owns too much of this city for me to ever mistake it as peaceful.
I adjust the cuff of my black dress shirt while watching traffic crawl across the bridges below. Christmas lights glow from rooftops and trees, gold and white against the gray afternoon sky. Beyond the river and the crowded skyline, Lake Michigan looks like steel.
It’s been eight days since I met Mia Accardi in Sicily. Six days since I kissed her, and she ran from me.
I didn’t see her again afterward, not that I expected to. Of course she avoided me for the rest of my stay. She returned to the Accardi estate probably believing this was the end of it, that I’d go back to Chicago and forget about my proposal.
I haven’t. And I won’t.
She’s crossed my mind far more often than she has any business doing. And after today’s ceremony, I’ll decide on the best way to bring her to Chicago.
A soft whistle sounds behind me.
“Jesus,” Gabe mutters. “You actually look nervous.”
I glance over my shoulder. My younger brother lounges against the kitchen island with an espresso in one hand, his suit jacket folded over the marble countertop beside him.
Unlike Rafa, who fills every room like a loaded weapon, Gabe moves through life like he already knows everyone will eventually agree with him.
“I don’t get nervous.”
“No?” His mouth curves. “You’ve been staring out that window for ten minutes.”
“I live here. I’m allowed to look at the view.”
“You hate the view.”
“That’s because the architect was an idiot.”
Gabe huffs a laugh. “Most people would kill to live in a penthouse overlooking Chicago.”
“Most people don’t need to worry about sniper angles.”
“That’s the spirit. Really sentimental for your last day here.”
My gaze sweeps over the clean lines, dark stone, and endless glass.
The penthouse was always temporary. The estate outside the city is where the Don resides. Starting today, that’s where I’ll live.
Not because I particularly care about that tradition, but because perception matters. Men follow symbols almost as readily as power itself.
Tonight, control changes hands officially.
Operationally, everything will remain the same. Everyone already comes to me before my father anyway. They’ve been doing it for over a year.
I take my jacket from the back of the chair and shrug it on. The moment the black wool settles across my shoulders, Gabe’s expression changes.
“You ready?”
I button the front. “I was born ready.”
His eyes narrow, studying me the way he always does when he thinks there’s something beneath the surface worth uncovering.
“You’ve been more closed off than usual. Did something happen in Sicily?” he asks.
I still for half a second. “That’s vague.”
“You came back distracted.”
“I came back busy.”
“Hmm.”
Mialina is not a topic I intend to discuss until I’ve worked out how to get her here.
Gabe pushes away from the counter and slips on his jacket, smart enough not to press further.
We take the elevator to the parking level for the forty-minute drive to our family’s estate outside the city.
By the time our convoy reaches it, afternoon is surrendering to the heavy winter sky. Stone walls and iron gates emerge through the falling snow, security lights glowing between the trees.
The gates open, and we move up the long drive.
My attention shifts toward the western side of the property. Snow blankets the gardens there, untouched except for skeletal hedges and dark branches cutting against the white landscape.
The location is right. It gets enough winter sunlight and sits far enough from the main drive to offer privacy without compromising security.
A glass conservatory would look good there.
Rafa steps from the entrance before the SUV even stops. Security is his domain, and as our lead enforcer, he handles anything that requires a heavier hand, so naturally he knows I’m here before I’ve even stepped out of the car.
“About time,” he says as I approach.
“You survived fifteen extra minutes without me. I’m proud of you.”
“Barely.”
Gabe joins us. “You’ve been terrorizing the staff, haven’t you?”
“They were moving too slowly.”
Gabe just shakes his head. Rafa ignores him and turns back to me.
“Father’s waiting in his study.”
I’m used to that sentence by now.
Ever since I assumed control of operations, weekly meetings in my father’s study have become part of the routine.
Warm air rolls over us as we enter the mansion. Cigar smoke, polished wood, old whiskey, and burning pine greet me.
Home. Or as close as I’ve ever allowed myself to define the word.
Staff move quietly through the entrance hall, carrying trays and making final preparations for the ceremony and reception. Christmas garlands wind around the staircase banisters in understated gold and dark green, the same way they have for as long as I can remember.
Remo stands near the security console built discreetly into the wall paneling, a tablet in his hands. The youngest of us has our mother’s eyes and her quiet way of noticing everything before he speaks.
“There was a drone over the south perimeter an hour ago,” he says without preamble. “Probably civilian, but I jammed the signal anyway.”
“Any footage?”
“Already pulled it. The chapel systems are secure too. Facial recognition is active, and I added thermal coverage around the treeline.”
I nod, and he straightens at the approval. Interesting how little things still matter.
“Good work. You’re done with the feeds once the ceremony starts.”
His brows draw together. “Max, I can monitor remotely from my phone.”
“That wasn’t a suggestion,” I reply. “We have staff for that. You’ll survive one evening without surveillance.”
Rafa claps a hand against the back of Remo’s neck. “Careful. He’ll start twitching.”
Remo shrugs him off. “One day I’m poisoning your food.”
“You’d cry halfway through doing it.”
“I wouldn’t.”
For a second, I almost see the kid Remo used to be, small enough to trail after me through these halls after our mother died because he hated how quiet the estate became at night.
I head deeper into the mansion, my brothers falling into step beside me. The doors to Father’s study stand open, a sign for us to enter.
Low firelight flickers across shelves lined with leather-bound books and decades of accumulated power. Winter light filters through the tall windows overlooking the grounds.
My mother’s portrait hangs above the fireplace.
Celia Marco sits captured in oil and gold leaf, one hand resting against the arm of a garden chair beneath summer sunlight. She looks elegant, calm, and strangely alive.
The house changed after she died. It became darker, more functional. Father stopped opening the curtains as often. The music disappeared first. Then the flowers. Then the warmth.
Remo remembers the least. Father remembers the most. I suspect neither of them ever recovered.
My gaze shifts toward the man seated beside the desk.
Alfonso Marco looks older tonight. Not weak, never that. But age and Parkinson’s have left their mark on a man who once seemed immovable.
His wheelchair sits beside him, though his posture remains straight. Even seated, the room belongs to him.
His eyes settle on me. “You’re late.”
Rafa checks his watch. “He’s three minutes early.”
“Then he should’ve arrived seven minutes ago.”
I ignore the comment and step farther into the room. “You look well.”
“I taught you to lie better than that.”
A faint smile touches my mouth.
“Your grandfather chose me carefully,” Father says after a moment.
The room quiets instinctively.
“He had no sons. Only Celia.” His attention shifts to my mother’s portrait. “He understood that blood and legacy matter. So he chose a Sicilian capable of carrying his empire forward.”
I’ve heard the story before, but this afternoon the words land differently. Because now they belong to me too.
“An empire survives because the men in power think beyond themselves,” Father continues. “Beyond desire and convenience. A bloodline dies quickly when a man stops planning beyond his own lifetime.” His gaze bores into mine. “A Don without heirs endangers everything that came before him.”
The expectations that shaped him are settling fully onto my shoulders now.
“You’ll need a wife, Maximo.”
My answer comes easily. “I’m handling it. There’ll be a wedding here soon.”
All three of my brothers look at me. Rafa’s brows lift. Curiosity sharpens behind Gabe’s eyes as several pieces apparently shift into place at once. Even Remo glances up from his tablet.
Father studies me for a long moment.
“I hope you don’t mean the Bellandi girl. I’m not convinced she has what it takes.”
“It’s not her.”
His gaze sharpens.
“We’ll have Sicilian blood in the family again. Leonardi blood.”
Something in his expression eases. “Good.”
He doesn’t ask for a name. He doesn’t need to. The Leonardi line is old enough that he knows exactly what it means.
Mia’s face flashes through my mind. Her warm brown eyes, quick tongue, and sun-kissed skin.
Without warning, Father places both hands against the armrests of his chair. Rafa straightens, ready to step closer.
“I’ve got it,” Father says.
He rises slowly and deliberately. The effort costs him. I see it in the tightening around his mouth and the pause as he steadies himself beside the desk. But even diminished, there’s something deeply imposing about him.
His attention returns to me. “Sit.”
For the first time in my life, the command isn’t directed at one of the chairs opposite the desk. He means his seat.
The room stills completely.
The chair behind the desk belonged to my grandfather before Father occupied it. Nearly a century of power has sat there, shaping this empire, ordering deaths, and forging alliances.
I cross the room. Father takes up his cane and steps aside.
The leather creaks softly as I lower myself into the chair.
He watches me in silence before saying, “A Don who rules through fear alone eventually loses respect. A Don who seeks approval loses power.”
The fire crackles behind us.
“Men should never need to wonder if you’ll do what’s necessary,” he continues. “Hesitation destroys empires faster than bullets. But brutality without vision destroys them too.”
It’s not the lesson I expected today.
“Being my firstborn made you my heir. Being able to lead is what makes you worthy of succeeding me.”
The words settle in the room. From Father, that is praise. Possibly the highest he has ever given me.
His attention moves toward the darkening western grounds.
“Everything is yours now. Do what needs to be done.”
That surprises me. Father has always resisted modernization, clinging to the old ways even when they no longer serve us.
I look beyond the glass to the stretch of snow-covered land, and once again picture winter sunlight spilling through glass into a room filled with warmth and green life.
“I will.”