27. Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Mialina
For the next couple of hours, Rory zigzags us through Chicago. I think she’s trying to introduce me to the city one neighborhood at a time.
Every few minutes she pulls the bike over, either because she spots something she wants to show me or we need a few minutes out of the cold.
One spontaneous stop blends into the next while we talk about everything and nothing.
I’m having the time of my life.
If someone had told me a week ago that I’d be exploring Chicago with a woman I’d only just met, I would have laughed in their face.
I didn’t want to come here and spent ten days dreading this trip, convinced it would be nothing more than another cage dressed up in a different setting.
Yet so far, Chicago keeps surprising me.
Sometime after the first hour of our adventure, I stopped checking over my shoulder for bodyguards. Nobody is hovering nearby or reporting on my movements.
I almost don’t recognize the feeling at first.
Freedom. Or at least the closest thing to it I’ve ever experienced.
Maybe that’s why my smile comes so easily as we continue down another snow-dusted street.
For once, nobody knows where I am. The next few hours belong to me.
Rory parks her motorcycle in front of her apartment. It sits above a tattoo studio in an older brick building, and I stop at the window display to ponder the various designs.
Hmm. I wonder if Maximo has any tattoos.
No, bad girl. We are not thinking about him today.
I’d love to get a tattoo. No woman in my family has one. Honestly, if needles didn’t freak me out, I’d probably get one right here and now before anybody could talk me out of it and remind me how an Accardi woman is supposed to present herself.
Hmm, what would I get?
Perhaps a dandelion, for the reasons I told Maximo.
But then my gaze lands on the tattoo machine, and the idea dies instantly. My throat threatens to close up, and sweat prickles along my forehead. Suddenly, I’m far too warm despite the freezing air.
Nope. I couldn’t do it. I’d pass out before they even finished the outline.
“Do you have a tattoo?” I ask Rory when she rejoins me after securing her bike.
“Several, actually.”
I blink. “Really?”
Rory pushes open the front door to the building. “You sound scandalized.”
“Not at all. I’m impressed. What did you get?”
We start climbing the narrow staircase toward her studio apartment. Halfway up, Rory shrugs out of her leather jacket before rolling up the sleeve of her sweater to her elbow.
“These are a few of them.”
I stop beside her and study her designs. A tiny lightning bolt sits near her wrist, little stars scatter along the inside of her forearm, and a matchstick is inked near her elbow.
There’s no theme to them at all. Yet they are unmistakably Rory.
“I kind of collect them,” she says, starting up the stairs again.
“Do they mean something?”
“Some do.” She grins over her shoulder. “Some were the result of tequila and bad decisions.”
I laugh. “That’s concerning.”
“You call it concerning,” Rory says lightly. “I call it character development.”
She rolls her sleeve back down as we climb another flight of stairs. Honestly, how many are there?
“This place could use an elevator,” I mutter.
Rory chuckles. “It’s good for you. Plus it warms you up after riding a motorcycle in winter. Have you ever been on one before?”
I snort. “Surely you can work out that answer. Remember, sheltered Mafia princess here.”
“Did you like it?”
“I loved it. It was so much fun. Can you teach me how to ride?”
My cheeks are frozen, but in Sicily that wouldn’t be a problem. The adrenaline still hasn’t worn off, and I already can’t wait to get back on the bike.
I’m out of breath when we finally reach the top. Rory pushes open her door, and we step inside.
Oh, wow.
Exposed brick walls frame plants spilling from every available surface. Vinyl records are stacked beside shelves overflowing with photography books, and soft lamps cast an amber glow across the dark wooden floors. A camera lies abandoned on the couch beside a pile of photographs.
The entire apartment smells faintly of coffee, vanilla, and developing film.
“This is amazing.”
Rory drops her helmet onto a chair. “It’s small.”
“It has personality.”
She smirks at me. “That’s a polite word for clutter.”
I smile as I wander further inside, taking off my jacket.
Framed photographs cover almost every available wall space. At first, they’re just flashes of women laughing, bare shoulders, tattoos, lingerie, soft skin caught in warm light. Then one catches my eye, and I stop.
My brows lift.
“Oh.”
For the first time since we met, Rory looks a little nervous.
“Yeah. That’s usually the reaction.”
I lean closer to get a better look. The woman in it looks completely comfortable in her own skin instead of performing for anyone.
“This is the kind of photography you do?”
Rory nods, walking up beside me.
“I’m still building my portfolio,” she says. “Most of these are friends.”
I glance around the apartment again, noticing more now.
The photos are intimate and soft, but there’s a confidence to them too. Like the women are seen for who they are.
“I thought you meant edgy art photography when you said you scandalize rich old men,” I admit.
Rory reaches up to straighten one of the pictures. “Everybody assumes that.”
A small brass plaque beneath it catches my eye.
Lee Roberts Photography
I frown.
“Who’s Lee Roberts? I thought these pictures were yours.” I gesture at the walls.
“They are.”
I’m confused. “So your name is Lee Roberts and not Rory?”
“Lee Roberts is my photographer pseudonym,” she explains.
I glance back at the plaque.
“Lee Roberts sounds like a middle-aged accountant.”
“Exactly.”
I scratch my temple. “So why use it?”
Rory hooks a thumb into the pocket of her jeans.
“Because I can’t exactly advertise boudoir photography under my real name. My father would have a coronary.”
“Fair.” Rory’s father sounds like the type who has very strong opinions about what his daughter should and shouldn’t do.
“He thinks I spend most of my time taking tasteful portraits and wedding photos.”
“And do you?”
“Occasionally.”
I grin. “So where did Lee Roberts come from?”
“When I first started, I asked a few volunteer models what kind of photographer they’d feel comfortable booking.” She gestures around the room. “Every single one of them picked a name that sounded normal and approachable.”
Her shoulders lift in a small shrug.
“Nobody wanted some mysterious artistic brand with an impossible French surname and a logo that looks like modern art.”
I sit down on her cream sofa and reach for one of her display books.
“That’s a bit harsh.”
“But true. Boudoir photography is already intimidating for most women. They’re trusting a stranger with a very vulnerable experience. A regular name makes people feel more comfortable.”
“That actually makes sense.”
“Lee Roberts sounds dependable. Like the sort of person who remembers your coffee order and emails back on time.”
“Lee Roberts definitely owns a sensible planner,” I add. “But wouldn’t most people assume Lee is a man?”
“Some did. I honestly didn’t think about that when I picked it. So I made sure to put my photo on the website and all my promotional stuff, so people know exactly who they’re booking.”
She wanders over to a shelf cluttered with camera lenses and picks one up.
“How did you get into this?”
Something in her expression softens.
“My best friend hated having her picture taken,” she says. “Like genuinely hated it. In every photo of herself, she found something she thought was wrong with her.”
I stay quiet, listening.
“One day I convinced her to let me photograph her,” Rory continues. “Nothing crazy. Just soft lighting, oversized shirt, bare legs, messy hair.”
Her eyes drop to the floor for a moment.
“And when she saw them, she cried.”
Something in my chest tightens. “Good crying?”
“Yeah. She said it was the first time she’d ever seen herself as beautiful.” Rory smiles. “I got obsessed with boudoir photography after that.”
Her gaze wanders to the display book in my hands.
“Women arrive terrified half the time. Then something shifts during the shoot, and they start seeing themselves in a different light. I love watching that happen.”
I turn a page in the book and study the woman lying on the bed in a lace corset, completely at ease in her own femininity.
Do I have that in me?
Could I look that comfortable in my own skin?
None of the women seem embarrassed or as if they’re posing for someone else’s approval. They’re… free.
“What?” Rory asks, noticing my expression.
I glance at her before looking back at the photographs.
“Could you take pictures of me like that?”
The question escapes before I can overthink it. Honestly, I’m not even sure where it came from.
Maybe escaping my bodyguards and spending an afternoon pretending I’m a normal nineteen-year-old has given me a boost.
Or it’s because every woman in these photographs looks so unapologetically herself.
For as long as I can remember, people have told me who I’m supposed to be.
An Accardi. A future wife and mother. A young woman who should know her place and behave accordingly.
But beyond my name and the bloodline running through my veins, who am I?
It’s a question I’ve never taken the time to ask.
I doubt I’ll ever come across another boudoir photographer. This is probably my only chance.
A grin spreads across Rory’s face.
“Sure can. I think you’d make a great model.”
Heat creeps into my cheeks. “You do?”
“Absolutely. You’re gorgeous, for starters. But it’s more than that. You’ve got presence. The camera loves that.”
Nobody has ever complimented me like that before.
People have called me pretty and beautiful. Lately, suitable wife material more times than I’d like. But no one has ever looked at me and seen… me.
I clear my throat.
“I don’t think I’ll be able to pay you. My family might have money, but I don’t have access to any of it.”
Rory waves the concern away.
“That’s okay. Like I told you, I’m still building my portfolio. If you’re happy for me to use some of the photos when I talk to future clients, we have a deal.”
I consider that for all of two seconds.
“Sounds fair.”
Rory’s grin widens.
“Perfect.”
Excitement stirs in my stomach. For once, it has nothing to do with a certain self-appointed ruler of the universe.
“So,” she says, rubbing her hands together, “since you successfully escaped your security and can do whatever you want, what do you say we do the photo session now?”
Hmm, I have a feeling today’s little adventure isn’t likely to be repeated anytime soon. I’ll be back to being escorted everywhere.
But not yet.
“Okay, let’s do it.”