13. Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Thirteen
Mialina
“Is Aldo not calling you tonight?” Sienna asks when the clock in the sitting room chimes for the seventh time.
All of us abandon our books and look at Mamma. She continues reading, as if none of us are staring at her.
Since Aldo Marino left Sicily, he’s called every night during his lunch hour in Chicago.
God knows what they talk about, but Mamma laughs now. Actually laughs.
After years of watching her navigate the minefield of our father’s moods, seeing her look this relaxed is like looking at a stranger.
A much happier, younger stranger.
“No, he’s busy,” Mamma says. “Maximo is officially taking over from his father. The succession ceremony is being held today.”
Isabella glances my way, searching for a reaction.
What could she possibly be looking for? This isn’t exactly breaking news.
We all knew Maximo Marco was destined for a throne. He carries himself like a man who was born with a crown and a scepter, even if both are made of cold steel and blood.
One of his great ambitions in life is now complete. Hopefully, that will keep him too occupied to remember that I exist.
So far, the signs are positive. I haven’t heard a single word from him since he left Sicily.
Part of me expected a bombardment of messages or some other grand gesture tied to his cocky claim on my future. Instead, there has been nothing. Not even a ripple in the air to suggest I’ve crossed his mind.
I should be relieved. I am relieved.
Being left alone by a man like Maximo is the closest thing to a blessing I’m likely to get.
My search for a decent distraction, however, has been far less successful than his quest for power. My attempt to replace the memory of that unfortunate garden kiss has been a spectacular failure.
I have yet to find a single man I actually want to touch.
Besides the fact that sneaking out unnoticed severely limits my options, every candidate seems either too soft, like that boy I kissed on the beach whose name I’ve already forgotten, or far too close to the new Chicago don’s self-assured arrogance.
Though in fairness, Maximo’s ego would be hard to top. He has cornered the market on supreme self-assurance.
There don’t seem to be any men in between. Apparently, the world, or at least the east coast of Sicily, is populated by either golden retrievers or wolves.
Perhaps I’m looking in the wrong places. Since I can only escape during the day, I’ve been exploring cafés, markets, and beaches. Not the one near our house, obviously.
No man has really caught my eye. And if one came close, I usually abandoned the mission after a few words and a little flirting.
It’s a tragedy. It’s been a week, and I’m still being haunted by the lips of a man who views women as high-yield investments and breeding cattle.
“Is Aldo going to come back here to visit?” Sienna asks.
She’s leaning in, her eyes dancing with a mix of mischief and something that looks suspiciously like genuine hope.
Mamma finally looks up from her book. There’s a softness in her face whenever his name is mentioned.
“There are no plans at this stage,” Mamma says.
Her voice is steady, but she can’t quite hide the smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.
“We just enjoy talking for now.”
“An hour a night is a lot of talking,” Sienna persists.
Mamma just shrugs. “It doesn’t feel that way.”
I watch her, a tug-of-war happening in my chest. I want to cheer Mamma on. After a lifetime spent under our father’s iron thumb, she deserves a man who listens to her instead of just barking orders.
If Aldo Marino makes her glow like she’s discovered the fountain of youth, then I should be thrilled. From what I’ve observed so far, he seems to be a gentleman. He’s kind and clearly adores her. But that could also be a mask, one that might fall away later, just like it did with Father.
On top of that, he comes with one very large complication. He’s the advisor to a man I’d rather forget exists. Every mile Mamma moves closer to Aldo, figuratively and literally, is a mile I’m dragged closer to Maximo.
“I’m happy for you,” Isabella says. She reaches over and gives Mamma’s hand a squeeze. “You’ve earned a nice man in your life.”
Mamma beams at her, and my heart sinks even as it warms.
I’m happy for her. I truly am.
But it’s hard to celebrate the light when you’re fairly certain it’s just the headlight of a train hurtling directly toward you.
The next morning, Isa, Sienna, and I are halfway down the staircase when a loud knock echoes through the foyer. One of the maids hurries toward the front door.
I slow my pace, my hand sliding along the banister as four men in black step into the foyer carrying enormous bouquets of flowers fit for a royal wedding.
“What on earth…” Sienna says, her eyes going wide.
Then another group enters. And another.
By the time the last man walks through the door, the entire entrance hall looks like a florist exploded inside it.
It’s breathtaking.
As someone who’s spent more time than I’d like to admit studying botanical arrangements, I’m practically drooling. Huge, cheerful sunflowers rise above clusters of delicate golden ranunculus, their tissue-thin petals tucked among white lilies whose rich, sweet scent fills the hall.
The arrangements are absurdly extravagant.
They are the kind of floral monuments reserved for a cathedral altar on a saint’s feast day, or for a peace treaty wedding between two families who were trying to kill each other the week before.
It’s the sort of over-the-top display meant to distract everyone from the fact the bride is being traded for shipping routes and political favors.
“Wow,” Sienna whispers, her voice full of awe. “Aldo isn’t playing around.”
“He’s trying to drown her in petals,” Isa says, a genuine smile breaking through her usual stoic mask.
I stand on the stairs, staring down at the sea of gold, and I can’t help the grin that spreads across my face.
Yes, I’m a sucker for a well-arranged bloom, and this is the most spectacular thing I’ve ever seen in person. If this is Aldo’s way of saying he’s thinking of her while he’s in Chicago, then the man is a romantic genius.
I feel a surge of happiness for Mamma. She deserves to have her house turned into a sun-drenched garden by a man who clearly knows her favorite colors.
“It’s a literal sun trap,” I say, finally finding my voice. “It’s impossible to be in a bad mood in a room this yellow.”
“Mamma!” Sienna yells toward the upstairs hallway. “Come downstairs right now!”
I laugh as Isa sidles up beside me.
“Mamma,” Sienna shouts louder this time, her voice echoing off the vaulted ceilings. “You need to see what Aldo sent you.”
When there’s still no answer from the master suite, she turns on her heel and rushes up the stairs.
One of the delivery men clears his throat. “There’s also a package,” he says.
He steps forward holding a cream-colored gift box wrapped in satin ribbon. My awe fades the second I see the tag attached to it.
Mialina Accardi.
Isa notices it at the same time I do.
Her frown deepens, her gaze darting between the box and the sea of yellow flowers filling the foyer.
“These aren’t for Mamma. They’re for you.”
Unease curls low in my stomach. It’s a sharp contrast to the warmth that was there only seconds ago.
“No,” I say immediately. “They can’t be.”
But even as the words leave my mouth, the truth is already taking root in my gut. The yellow flowers and the sheer scale of the display tell me this isn’t a gentlemanly tribute to a budding romance. It’s a siege.
Isa watches my expression carefully now.
“Mia?”
I don’t respond. Scowling, I take the box from the delivery man, my fingers grazing the cool, expensive cardboard. Isa steps closer, practically vibrating with curiosity.
With a steadying breath, I untie the ribbon and lift the lid.
Inside the box are several elegant tins of tea, beautifully packaged and clearly expensive. I pick one up and read the label.
Dandelion root tea.
“Oh no,” Isa whispers, though her eyes are sparkling with delight.
I close my eyes, wishing I could travel back in time and sew my mouth shut. I deeply regret ever answering his questions about my favorite flower.
Before I can stop her, Isa snatches the card from the box. I reach for it, but she is faster, dancing out of my range.
Her eyes scan the note, and then she bursts out laughing. It isn’t a polite little chuckle but a can’t-breathe kind of laugh.
“Oh, this is bad,” she wheezes, clutching her stomach as she tries to suck in air. “This is spectacularly bad, Mia.”
“Give me that,” I hiss, reaching for the card.
She holds it out of reach, reading it aloud with far too much dramatic flair.
They say pregnant women should avoid caffeine.
You may as well start adjusting now.
Maximo
“Oh my God,” I choke out.
Heat floods my face so fast I swear my skin burns.
“I’m going to kill him.”
Isa is bent over laughing now.
“This man skipped the courting phase entirely.” Her face turns a bright, unladylike shade of pink. “He bypassed the dinners and the small talk and went straight to planning the bloodline.”
“He’s insane,” I snap.
“The scary part,” Isa says, wiping tears from beneath her eyes, “is that I don’t think he’s joking.”
“He’s not.” Maximo Marco doesn’t possess a traditional sense of humor, only a sense of inevitability.
Isa points at the flowers. “Mia, I think this man really believes you’ll be his wife.”
My stomach does something deeply irritating. A fluttery, traitorous sensation that has no business being there.
Because the worst part is that Isa is probably right.
Maximo isn’t flirting. He’s informing me of my future.
Footsteps sound upstairs. Mamma appears at the top of the staircase, her silk robe fluttering around her ankles. She’s already smiling, her expression full of that soft, expectant glow.
“What did Aldo—”
She stops dead. Her eyes widen as she takes in the impossible amount of flowers filling the foyer.
“Oh,” she breathes, her hand fluttering to her chest.
Isa chuckles.
“That was our reaction too, Mamma,” she says through a grin, “but these aren’t for you.”
I wish the marble floor would just open up and swallow me whole. Preferably along with every single one of these beautiful, mocking, golden blooms.