22. Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Two
Mialina
Behave?
And little rebel?
Who says that to someone they barely know?
Three days in Sicily followed by weeks apart does not qualify a man to start handing out absurd little nicknames like I’m already his.
The longer I think about it, the hotter my blood burns. I glare at Maximo’s back as he walks toward the center of the ballroom. If looks could kill, Chicago would be searching for a new don.
Vittoria gives me one last cold, assessing look before nodding politely at Gabe and drifting back toward a cluster of young women near the champagne tower. Their heads bend closer together, and every so often one or two of them glance in my direction.
Great. Now I’m gossip material.
Maximo comes to a stop beneath the glittering chandeliers, and conversations quiet around him.
Aldo moves beside him, while Mamma watches him with unmistakable affection written all over her face. Ari and Sienna stand beside her. Some things never change. Not so long ago, I was expected to remain glued to Mamma’s side all evening during official functions too.
Maximo lifts his glass, and the entire room falls silent. Honestly, it’s irritating how easily he commands attention.
He lets the silence stretch, every eye in the ballroom turning toward him. Including mine.
His gaze lands on me. And it stays there.
Every nerve ending in my body suddenly seems far too awake.
“What is he doing?” I ask Gabe under my breath, unable to look away from Maximo.
“Probably announcing your engagement.” He takes a slow sip of his drink, far too entertained by my discomfort.
“What?”
The blood drains from my face. I whip toward him so fast that I nearly spill my drink. Gabe just laughs.
“Relax. I’m joking. He’s making a toast.”
Right.
Except I wouldn’t put it past Maximo to do something insane, like publicly announcing I belong to him. The man practically breathes manipulation and strategic ambushes. For all I know, he’s about to unveil matching wedding rings and a priest.
People begin turning toward me. They study me with open interest, their curiosity piqued by the attention their Don is giving me.
My stomach churns.
Merda, I don’t want to become tonight’s entertainment.
I straighten my spine and force a pleasant smile onto my face. Maximo is no doubt enjoying watching me unravel.
But I won’t be playing his games.
Across the room, Maximo holds my gaze for another long second before finally letting his attention sweep over the guests.
It should make me feel better.
But it doesn’t. Because somehow, even while he’s addressing the entire ballroom, his eyes keep finding their way back to me.
“I’m going to the restroom,” I say to Gabe.
His grin widens. “Too scared to stick around?”
Yes.
“Never.”
His laughter follows me as I turn and weave through the crowded ballroom. I tune out Maximo’s voice, refusing to acknowledge the way it seems to caress my skin. Halfway to the doors, I make the mistake of glancing back.
He’s still speaking without missing a beat, but his eyes are on me again.
I keep my steps measured. Wouldn’t want to give him the impression I’m fleeing.
I’m simply not interested in whatever he has to say. I’ve heard enough birthday speeches glorifying oh-so-important mafia men to last me a lifetime.
The moment the doors close behind me, I let out a long exhale. Cool air brushes against my overheated skin as I step into the quieter corridor leading toward the terrace exit.
I need a minute. Maybe ten.
Preferably somewhere far away from the infuriating Chicago don and whatever game he thinks he’s playing with me.
I push outside into the winter night and instantly regret not grabbing my coat. Freezing wind cuts through the silk of my dress, making me shiver.
Hugging my arms around myself, I glance around for a solution before spotting a service table tucked near the inside of the terrace doors, stacks of folded white tablecloths resting on top.
I grab two when no one is looking. Perfect.
Wrapping the tablecloths around myself, I step out onto the terrace, taking a deep, freezing breath.
Despite the icicles that must be forming inside my lungs, I relish the freedom from Chicago’s high mafia society out here.
Not surprisingly, given the temperatures, I’m alone.
Stepping up to the railing, I take in the gardens below, golden lights glowing against the snow. The estate looks more like some old-money winter fantasy than an actual home.
Then something catches my attention through the trees. Beyond the hedges and bare branches, a warm glow reflects off glass.
I lean against the railing, squinting into the darkness.
What on earth is that?
I should probably ignore it. That would be the sensible thing to do. Unfortunately, I’ve never been especially committed to sensible choices.
Pulling the tablecloths tighter around myself, I head down the stairs leading off the terrace.
The moment my heels sink into snow at the bottom step, icy cold seeps through the thin soles of my shoes.
I stop.
I glance back toward the glowing ballroom windows behind me, then toward the inviting structure further down the garden.
It’s a complete no-brainer.
I’d rather risk hypothermia than go back inside and endure another second of Maximo staring at me like I’m already wearing his wedding ring.
As long as security doesn’t mistake me for an intruder and wrestle me face-first into the snow, everything should be fine. Right?
A narrow path cuts through the snow toward the mysterious structure. It’s only lightly dusted while the ground around it lies ankle-deep.
Thank God someone had the foresight to clear the way for reckless women wandering around in evening gowns.
The farther I walk from the mansion, the quieter everything becomes. That part I love. My freezing fingers and toes, however, not so much. I pull the layers of stolen linen tighter around myself.
Seriously, this was a terrible idea.
I’m dressed for a ballroom, not an arctic expedition. But I’m almost there. I’m not turning back now.
Somewhere behind me, music still drifts faintly from the mansion. And ahead of me, the glowing structure grows larger.
It’s so much bigger than I first thought.
Glass walls rise high into the night, framed in black steel. Warm amber light glows from within while snow gathers along the roof above. Even from here I can see plants and trees inside.
This is a conservatory. No, bigger than that. A full-scale luxury glass house.
My heart gives a strange little leap.
The condensation makes it difficult to see inside. I step closer, peering through one of the panels.
There are plants and flowers everywhere.
I catch glimpses of oversized pots, climbing greenery, and pools of soft light surrounding a seating area near what looks like a fireplace.
That’s where I need to be.
I spot a side door sitting ajar. Well, that’s practically an invitation to explore the inside.
I slip through the opening, and heated, humid air wraps around me instantly, along with the rich scent of flowers and fresh earth.
I look around, stunned. The inside is even more impressive than the outside.
Towering glass ceilings arch high overhead, condensation gleaming beneath hanging lanterns tucked among the greenery. Flower beds curve through the enormous space alongside stone pathways, while climbing roses twist around black iron frames.
My gaze drifts toward the enormous citrus trees arranged around a sunken seating area filled with cream sofas, thick blankets, and a crackling stone fireplace.
I make a beeline for the sofa closest to the fire, dropping onto it with a relieved sigh and holding my hands toward the flames.
Painful pins and needles stab back into my frozen fingers.
Ow.
I curl deeper into the leather, letting the heat soak into my skin while I glance around the conservatory in awe.
The entire space seems to be designed to make winter disappear.
Whoever created this intended people to linger here.
The more I look around, the more details stand out to me. Somewhere nearby, water trickles from a stone fountain among the plants.
Fresh soil still darkens the flower beds beneath the lantern light. Young climbing vines curl around the iron frames, only beginning to spread upward, while other sections still wait for something to be planted.
Everything here looks new.
“You know, most women wearing couture don’t wander around gardens wrapped in tablecloths,” an amused voice suddenly says from somewhere behind me.
I jerk upright so fast I nearly tangle myself in the stolen linen.
My heart jumps straight into my throat. For one horrible second, I’m convinced I’ve been caught breaking into some secret part of Maximo’s estate.
Instead of security, though, I find a girl about my age leaning casually against one of the iron pillars nearby, amusement dancing across her face.
Dark pixie-cut hair streaked with copper catches the firelight, the messy strands somehow making her look effortlessly artistic instead of chaotic. An oversized charcoal sweater hangs off one shoulder above black jeans tucked into worn boots, and a camera rests against her hip on a leather strap.
“Oh my God,” I breathe, pressing a hand against my chest. “You half scared me to death.”
Her grin widens.
“Sorry. I thought you would’ve heard me coming.”
“No, I was too busy stealing tablecloths and trespassing.”
She glances pointedly at the linen wrapped around me.
“To be fair, they do elevate the look.”
A startled laugh escapes me, and just like that, some of the tension inside me loosens.
“I’m Rory,” she says, pushing away from the pillar and wandering closer. “My dad manages the grounds here.”
That explains why she seems so at ease.
“I’m Mia. I’m just visiting.”
Rory drops onto the sofa opposite mine, tucking one leg beneath herself.
“And escaping the party.”
“Escaping Maximo, more like it,” I mutter.
That earns me an immediate laugh.
“Oh, so you’re smart.”
I grin despite myself.
“That’s debatable, given I ventured outside without a coat and proper shoes, and nearly froze to death.”