25. Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Five
Mialina
I’m lying in bed, staring up at the unfamiliar ceiling, still far too wound up to sleep.
God, I’m furious with myself that I nearly kissed him… again.
As soon as we got back to Aldo’s, I removed Maximo’s flowers from my room. I couldn’t stomach one more reminder of him.
The last thing I need is to wake up to his smug floral arrangement silently insisting my resistance is temporary, and it’s only a matter of time until he gets what he wants.
I wanted to throw the bouquet into the trash, but I couldn’t do it to the flowers. They’re innocent in all of this.
So I relocated them to a console table near Aldo’s office. Let Maximo’s consigliere enjoy them instead.
I’m unlikely to wander there, which means I won’t have to look at the flowers ever again.
My gaze drifts to the clock on my nightstand. It’s almost eleven. I should be exhausted after traveling halfway around the world, but sleep refuses to come.
Mamma didn’t need much convincing to return to Aldo’s. My sisters were exhausted, and I couldn’t rejoin the party after wandering across Maximo’s estate through the snow until the hem of my dress was damp and filthy.
Thankfully, I didn’t have to walk back. Maximo had a car waiting to return us to the mansion in blissful warmth.
I didn’t speak to him during the three-minute drive. I just stared out the window, pretending not to notice his gaze on me the entire time.
Which was difficult, considering the air inside the car was as charged as it had been in the conservatory.
I still can’t believe it. The man built me a damn glasshouse. An entire hidden world of warmth and flowers in the middle of a Chicago winter.
It was like stepping into another life. One where winter couldn’t touch me while I curled beneath blankets beside a fire and citrus trees glowing beneath lantern light.
Well, winter won’t touch me in Sicily either. I just need to get back there as soon as possible.
Maximo’s brown eyes flecked with gold, and the feel of his warm breath against my skin, still linger in my mind.
The memory sends heat creeping back into my cheeks… and much lower too.
I roll onto my side with an aggravated groan and shove my face deeper into the pillow.
Argh.
I can never go back to that little paradise now that I know why Maximo built it. It’s a beautifully orchestrated bribe designed to lure me straight into becoming Mrs. Marco.
Not happening.
The beeping of my phone interrupts my thoughts, and I reach for it. Maybe it’s Isa with an update on her elopement plans.
But the number on the screen is unfamiliar. Curious, I open the message.
A smile pulls at my mouth.
Rory: Hope you didn’t get in trouble for trespassing in the glasshouse tonight ??
A laugh escapes me before I can stop it.
Mia: Excuse you. I was invited by the slightly open door.
Rory: Ah yes. The universal sign for “come commit crimes.”
Mia: Exactly.
Rory: So… did Don Maximo murder you after I abandoned you to him?
My face heats at the memory of Maximo’s gaze.
Mia: Tragically, no.
Mia: Though he did look very disappointed I escaped his birthday speech.
Rory: That man gives intense “tracks people for sport” energy.
I snort into my pillow.
Mia: You noticed too??
Rory: Hard not to when he walked into the greenhouse looking at you like the rest of us had stopped existing.
My stomach does something deeply irritating. I yank the blanket higher as if that somehow helps.
Mia: Horrifying.
Rory: A bit romantic.
Mia: Rory.
Rory: Fine. Horrifyingly romantic.
Despite myself, I smile.
Mia: Better.
Rory: Anyway, if you’re not busy tomorrow, I could show you the actual Chicago instead of just mafia mansions.
The offer sends an unexpected flicker of excitement through me.
Mia: Tempting.
Rory: We could grab coffee. I’ll take you to my favorite bookstore. Maybe the lake if you survive the cold.
My thumbs hover over the screen. A day in Chicago with someone my own age. The idea is thrilling.
Could I go into the city tomorrow? Would I need to ask Aldo now that we’re staying here?
No, I’m nineteen years old. I don’t need permission to leave the house. Especially not in a city where nobody knows who I am.
Mia: I also want to see your photography.
Rory: Sure. Fair warning, I’m quite passionate about it.
Mia: Even better. I want to see what would scandalize rich old men.
Rory: Perfect. I’ll text you in the morning.
Mia: Looking forward to it.
Rory: Also, wear actual winter clothes this time. Chicago is trying to kill you.
Mia: Dramatic.
Rory: Says the Sicilian girl who nearly froze to death in a party dress tonight.
Mia: Fair point. Goodnight, Rory.
Rory: Night, rebel girl.
A smile lingers on my face long after the conversation ends. Rory is my very first friend in Chicago. Anywhere, actually.
Perhaps Chicago isn’t so bad.
The café Rory texted me the address for is tucked between a tiny bookstore and a record shop on a snowy Chicago side street.
Amber lights glow through fogged windows while handwritten chalkboards advertise pastries and coffee with names like “Existential Crisis Mocha” and “Lavender Honey Matcha Dreams”.
Inside, the air smells like espresso, cinnamon, and old books. I instantly love it.
I’ve never been anywhere like this. Hardly surprising when Father rarely allowed us outside the house.
Exposed brick walls are covered in framed photographs and mismatched shelves overflowing with novels, while soft music hums beneath the low murmur of conversations around me.
Half the people here look like they either write poetry or own at least one vintage camera. Rory fits in perfectly.
I spot her near the back window, one boot hooked over the rung of her chair while she scrolls through something on her phone.
She looks up as I approach, then her eyes flick past me. A grin spreads across her face.
“I see you brought an entourage.”
I glance over my shoulder toward the two men who entered with me and are now seated at a nearby table pretending to read the menu. In their dark suits, they stick out like sore thumbs.
“Not voluntarily,” I mutter, sliding into the seat opposite her. “Aldo told me they’d drive me into the city. He conveniently forgot to mention they’d stay glued to my side.”
Rory snorts, and one of the guards glances our way before returning his attention to the menu he’s been holding upside down for at least thirty seconds.
Subtle.
“Nobody knows me here in Chicago, so it’s not like I’m actually in danger,” I continue under my breath. “I’m sure Maximo had something to do with it. He’s such a control freak.”
Rory studies me over the rim of her coffee cup.
“What is the deal between you two?”
I lean back in my chair. A server with silver rings and eyeliner sharp enough to kill stops at our table, and I order an espresso.
“What do you mean?” I ask innocently once she leaves.
I don’t want to talk about Chicago’s Mafia Don right now… or ever, really.
“Oh, come on,” Rory laughs. “Don’t play dumb.”
I like that she isn’t afraid to call me out on it.
“He apparently looked at me once in Sicily and decided that was enough information to plan the rest of our lives.”
Rory nearly chokes on her drink, laughing.
“Oh my God.”
“I know.”
“That’s either deeply romantic or seriously concerning.”
“I’m leaning toward concerning.”
“Mm.” Rory tilts her head. “Though I did see the way he looked at you in the greenhouse.”
I focus very hard on removing my gloves.
“He’s trying to seduce me into becoming Mrs. Marco. That’s why he had it built.”
Rory clutches her chest dramatically. “So he’s attempting some startlingly expensive version of sweeping you off your feet?”
“Yeah, except less romantic and more you-will-bear-my-six-heirs.”
Rory’s mouth falls open. When I don’t say anything else, she blinks.
“Wait. You’re serious?”
“Unfortunately.”
I finally tug my gloves free and shove them onto the table.
“Too bad for him I’m not interested in becoming a mafia baby factory.”
Rory leans back in her chair. “Wow. Six kids?”
“Probably more if any of them are girls.”
“I knew our new don was traditional, but that’s…” She shakes her head. “Actually, I don’t even have words.”
“I do,” I mutter. “Chauvinistic. Pig-headed. Completely delusional.”
Rory snorts into her coffee. The server drops off my espresso, and I tear open the sugar packets a tad aggressively.
My new friend’s expression turns more serious.
“I hate to break it to you, but Maximo Marco tends to get what he wants.”
“Why does everybody keep telling me this?” I mutter, pouring in the sugar and stirring the cup.
“Arranged marriages are pretty much the norm in your circles, though, aren’t they?”
Her comment brings back memories of color-coded spreadsheets and Father’s endless agendas.
My stomach twists.
I reach for my cup and take a sip. The espresso tastes bitter, though I’m not convinced it’s just the coffee.
“They are,” I admit. “But I’m determined to decide my own fate. My father died a few months ago and Mamma assures us she’ll let us pick our own husbands.”
Rory nods. “I obviously don’t know you that well yet, but I get the feeling if any woman can pull that off, it’s you.”
I search her face, but find only sincerity.
“Thank you. That means a lot.”
Rory looks out of the window and then back at me.
“This conversation has turned a bit heavy. How about I show you some of the city? You know, in case Chicago becomes your new home,” she teases, nudging me playfully.
“Don’t even joke about that,” I laugh. “But yes, let’s go exploring.”
She grins before glancing at the guards. Leaning forward, she lowers her voice.
“You wanna lose them?”
My eyes light up. “Yes, please.”
A laugh escapes her. “I knew I liked you.”
“Same.”
Rory glances toward the hallway near the counter.
“Okay. Here’s the plan. Go to the bathroom in like two minutes.”
I blink. “That’s the plan?”
“There’s a window.”
I stare at her. “Okay.”
“You climb out of it,” she says. “It leads into an alley behind the building. I’ll meet you there.”
“And you know all of this because you climb out of it yourself?” I joke.
“Yes, I have, in fact. I was escaping a disastrous date.”
Now that’s an answer I didn’t expect.
I’ve never tried dodging my security before. Sure, I snuck out of the house plenty of times growing up, but that’s different. Those escapes involved planning, studying guard rotations and camera angles. This is reckless in comparison. Improvised.
“What about them?” I ask, nodding toward the guards.
Rory follows it.
“They’ll wait outside the bathroom.”
I giggle. “And then?”
Her grin turns mischievous. “Then we disappear.”
Five minutes later, I’m standing in a tiny café bathroom staring at an equally tiny window.
“Oh, this is how people die in horror movies,” I mutter under my breath.
A knock sounds on the door.
“Are you okay in there, Miss Accardi?” one of the guards asks.
Wonderful.
“I’m fine,” I call back, already climbing onto the sink.
The window screeches as I force it open. Freezing air slams into my face.
Muttering several Sicilian curses under my breath, I awkwardly squeeze through the opening before dropping into the snowy alley behind the café.
As promised, Rory is waiting for me… beside a black motorcycle.
A helmet dangles from one hand while a thick leather jacket hangs from the other.
I stare at her.
She stares back, raising one eyebrow.
“You didn’t think we were escaping on foot, did you?”