18. Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Eighteen
Mialina
The driver steers us away from the city and takes us deep into the quiet darkness of the wealthy suburbs. All I catch of Chicago itself is a cluster of glittering lights blazing in the distance.
A tragedy, honestly.
“I was hoping you lived closer to the city, Aldo,” I say, watching the skyline disappear behind snow-covered trees. “I wanted to explore Chicago despite these offensive temperatures. Preferably on foot instead of requiring a chauffeur.”
Aldo chuckles from the row in front of us. “You haven’t felt offensive yet. You missed the worst of winter.”
I stare at him in horror. “It gets worse than this?”
He nods, suppressing a smile.
“How are people still alive here?” Sienna murmurs beside me.
“Exactly,” I reply. “The air hurts my face. That can’t be natural.”
“It builds character,” Aldo replies drily.
“I already have character. I’d like circulation instead,” I quip.
That earns me a laugh from him. It’s warm and genuine enough that I almost forget I’m being driven through what looks like the inside of a snow globe.
“I’m glad to be living in Sicily,” I mutter, rubbing my hands together for warmth even though the temperature in the car is pleasant.
Mamma and Aldo share a look. A very long one, the kind that activates every suspicious instinct I possess.
My gaze drops to where their hands are clasped together between the seats, his thumb brushing across her skin.
We only just arrived, and they’re already alarmingly affectionate. And not in the awkward, tentative way of people still figuring each other out. I narrow my eyes at Aldo.
Then his estate comes into view, and my attention snaps forward again.
The mansion rises from the snowy landscape in glowing layers of stone, iron, and warm amber light. Snow blankets the rooftops and hedges, softening the grandeur of the architecture.
It’s enormous, obviously. We grew up with wealth, sprawling grounds, and mafia families who build homes large enough to survive an apocalypse. But this place seems different somehow. Charming. That’s the surprising part.
Most grand estates are cold, designed to remind visitors how powerful the owner is. This doesn’t, or at least not entirely.
Golden light spills from the windows onto the snow. Smoke curls from several chimneys. It feels lived in. Loved, even.
“It’s beautiful,” Sienna says, her eyes wide.
I glance toward Mamma and watch her expression as she takes it all in. And the smile on her face tells me she likes it too.
“You didn’t mention your house looks like the setting of a romantic Christmas movie,” I say to Aldo.
His mouth twitches. “Is that approval?”
“I’m undecided. I need to survive the weather first.”
Mamma laughs beside him, and Aldo’s whole face lights up at the sound.
Oh no, that look is deeply concerning.
Staff wait along the front steps when we get out of the car, standing with the kind of quiet professionalism that makes me feel more important than I am.
My first thought is that this looks suspiciously like the sort of welcome reserved for a new lady of the house.
Surely not. Maybe this is how guests are greeted here. Let’s hope.
Warmth wraps around me the moment the doors close behind us. The interior somehow matches the outside perfectly. Elegant without feeling untouchable.
“This,” I announce while unbuttoning my coat, “is significantly more welcoming than the frozen death landscape outside.”
Aldo laughs. “You’ll adjust.”
“Unlikely.”
Ari wanders slowly in a circle, staring up at the towering ceilings and enormous chandelier overhead like she’s stepped into a palace from one of her fantasy novels.
Meanwhile, Aldo’s attention never strays far from Mamma. He watches her as she takes everything in, and whenever she smiles, satisfaction slips into his features like her approval genuinely matters to him.
“Simon will show you girls to your rooms,” Aldo says, gesturing toward a man dressed impeccably in a dark suit.
A male house manager. Aldo might not be as traditional as I thought.
Simon inclines his head. “If you’ll follow me.”
Meanwhile, Aldo places a hand against Mamma’s back and guides her toward a different hallway.
My brows rise so fast they nearly disappear into my hairline.
A different hallway? Excuse me?
Sienna catches my expression and bites the inside of her cheek to stop herself from laughing.
Surely they’re not sharing a room already. That seems wildly premature.
Mamma believes in decorum. She raised us on it.
Then again, this is the woman allowing Aldo to hold her hand every five minutes like they’re starring in some late-life romance novel.
I’m okay with it as long as she doesn’t want to stay here.
Simon leads us upstairs. It’s just as warm as the foyer, the long hallways softened by runners, antique lamps, and framed family photographs instead of severe artwork or intimidating portraits.
Simon opens the first bedroom door.
“This is your room, Miss Mialina.”
I step inside and immediately stop short. A massive flower arrangement sits in the center of the room, overflowing with deep red roses and winter greenery.
Oh no.
I know those flowers. Or rather, the style. Elegant, excessive, and slightly intimidating.
The exact same kind Maximo keeps sending me.
Perhaps Chicago only has one florist specializing in emotionally aggressive bouquets. Because I’ve since found out that he flies the flowers in from Chicago to Sicily.
Who does that? As if Sicily doesn’t have capable florists.
Then my gaze drops to several boxes lined up beneath the arrangement.
My stomach sinks.
I recognize every single one of them. They’re the gifts I returned to Maximo. And sitting neatly beside them is a new box.
I suppose it’s the one accompanying this latest floral assault. A small cream envelope rests against the vase, and against my better judgment, I pick it up.
Welcome to my city.
Maximo
That’s all it says.
His city.
Somehow those two words feel less like a greeting and more like a reminder that I’m in his territory now.
As if I’d ever forget.
My eyes drift back to the flowers despite myself. I want to hate them, but the flower lover in me simply can’t. They really are beautiful. Dark red roses, winter greenery, and white orchids woven between them.
I set the note down with more aggression than necessary and glare at the new box. Then I pick it up. Something shifts inside, followed by a soft thump.
My brows pull together.
What on earth did he send me now?
I give the box an experimental shake. Another muted knock comes from inside.
Hmm, definitely something solid. Probably expensive. Most likely exasperating.
I place the box back on the table. I will not succumb to my curiosity.
Argh.
It’s so much harder than it should be. I pinch the bridge of my nose.
God, this man is exhausting.