34. Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Four
Maximo
“Anything to report?” I ask the guard patrolling Aldo’s gate.
I’m stopping by to check in on Mia and her sisters on my way back from a meeting in the city. Aldo and Caterina left for Colorado earlier today, and I assured him I’d keep an eye on things while they were gone.
Not that there’s much chance of anything happening security-wise here. The estate is one of the best-protected properties in the city.
It’s really just an excuse to call on Mia and make sure she doesn’t get up to any more mischief. I’m told she promised her mother not to ditch her security again if she and her sisters decide to do more sightseeing.
“This package was dropped off for Miss Accardi,” the guard informs me.
He exchanges a glance with the other guard on duty as he points at a large brown envelope sitting on the desk inside the gatehouse.
“Which Miss Accardi is it for?” I ask, studying the envelope from my periphery.
The guard’s mouth twitches. It’s not enough to qualify as a smile, barely enough to register at all, really. But it still catches my attention. I didn’t become Don by missing details.
“Miss Mialina Accardi,” he says.
My gaze settles fully on him, and he immediately straightens.
I hold out my hand. “Give it to me.”
His expression remains neutral as he picks up the envelope and steps closer to the SUV. He passes it through the window, his hand shaking slightly as he releases it.
It’s large and flat, and oddly there’s no address, no company logo, no return details. Only Mia’s name.
I tamp down a surge of irritation. Mia has only been in Chicago for a few days. She shouldn’t know enough people here to be receiving mysterious packages.
So who is this from?
“Has it been inspected for explosives or anything else suspicious?”
“Yes, sir.” Again, I catch the slightest tightening around his mouth. It’s like he’s trying very hard not to grin.
My irritation deepens. “What’s inside?”
“A book.”
The answer only raises more questions. A book doesn’t explain the guard’s reaction, nor why somebody felt the need to send it in packaging that looks deliberately anonymous.
“Who dropped this off?” I ask, wanting a fuller picture.
“A girl on a motorcycle,” the guard replies. “She asked us to take it to the house.”
My attention sharpens. “When was that?”
The guard glances toward the clock hanging inside the gatehouse before looking back at me. To my surprise, his cheeks begin to redden.
“Two hours ago, sir.”
The confidence from earlier has vanished from his voice. My eyes narrow.
“What’s your name?”
His eyes flick toward mine. “Donald Finch, sir.”
“Explain to me, Donald, why a package delivered for a member of the Marino household is still sitting in this gatehouse two hours later.”
The color in his face deepens, and his gaze drops. Beside him, the second guard suddenly finds the ground fascinating too.
“We were going to take it back to the house at shift change, so we wouldn’t leave our posts.”
On the surface, it’s a reasonable answer. The problem is that neither man looks as though he believes it will satisfy me.
Donald continues staring at his boots, as does the other guard.
“Did it occur to either of you to call the house and ask someone to collect it?”
“No, sir.” The answer comes a little too quickly.
I rub my temple. I have little patience for incompetence. Even less for half-truths. And right now, I have the distinct impression that I’m not getting the full story.
My gaze drifts back to the envelope. Neither guard follows it. If anything, they seem determined not to look at it at all, which only makes me more curious about what’s inside.
I dismiss them with a wave and signal Philip, my driver, to start the car again. As we make our way down the driveway, I turn to Leon in the front seat.
“When we get to the house, check the security footage to see if the girl on the motorcycle is Rory Palma.”
Surely it has to be her. How many other girls on motorcycles would be dropping things off for Mia?
“Of course, sir,” the head of my personal security replies.
Gravel crunches beneath the tires as we approach the mansion.
I turn the envelope over and finally examine the back more closely. The flap has already been opened for inspection. A single sticker bearing the sender’s name had sealed the envelope. It’s torn now, but the name is still readable.
Lee Roberts.
Who the fuck is that? The name means nothing to me.
My jaw tightens.
Why is Rory delivering a package for Mia from this man? How does he know Mia?
Did they meet when Mia was roaming the city with my gardener’s daughter?
The questions come faster than the answers.
The irritation in the pit of my stomach grows. I don’t like this one bit.
Needing to know what I’m dealing with, I open the flap of the envelope and slide the book out.
It’s large, coffee-table-book-sized and linen-covered, with Mia’s full name embroidered in gold across the front.
This book isn’t something bought off a shelf. Somebody commissioned this and spent money on it. The thought tightens something unpleasant in my chest.
There are yellow notes protruding from the pages. One catches my eye.
This one is one of my favorites.
My gaze lingers on the note for a moment.
Favorites?
The SUV turns into the circular driveway, but I barely notice. My thumb brushes across the edge of the cover. Then I open it.
Everything inside me freezes.
I forget to breathe.
The next moment, something hot and violent tears through me. I can’t even name it.
Anger? Possessiveness? Jealousy?
The first photograph hits me like a punch. For a second, I just stare.
Mia looks directly at the camera. Directly at me.
No, not me. The man behind the camera.
My hands ball into fists with the sudden urge to put that guy through a wall.
I turn the page. Another photograph, the one Lee Roberts marked This is one of my favorites.
I can see why. My grip tightens on the book.
Mia is on her knees, on a bed that isn’t hers, clad in a translucent little nightgown, her black lace lingerie teasing through the fine fabric.
Jesus Christ.
My breaths come faster. My chest rises and falls as I fight to maintain control.
I turn the page, and the blood in my body rushes south. In this shot, she’s in a dark emerald bra and panties. My eyes drop to her breasts, barely contained by the lace.
Fuuucccckkkk.
The Mia I know is stubborn, defiant, and quick with a sarcastic remark. Beautiful despite all of that, or maybe because of it.
This Mia is something else entirely.
Her dark hair spills over one shoulder. Her expression is softer. Not submissive. Never that, but open in a way I’ve never seen on her before.
It’s only now that I notice the vehicle has rolled to a stop and both Philip and Leon have stepped out. How have I missed this?
Thankfully, they know better than to open my door when I appear occupied.
And hell, am I occupied.
I turn another page. Then another. My pulse thuds a little harder. I don’t even realize I’m leaning forward until the leather seat creaks beneath me.
There are dozens of photographs. How long did this take?
I adjust my pants. I’m so uncomfortably hard the imprint of my zipper might forever be tattooed onto me.
Mia is sin personified. I can’t take my eyes off her.
The photographs aren’t random. The lighting, the angles, and the poses… everything seems carefully planned and executed.
A muscle jumps in my jaw. This Lee Roberts spent hours looking at her, seeing her like this.
Hours.
He would have guided her into each pose, stepped close enough to brush a loose strand of hair from her face or tilt her chin toward the light. He would have watched her smile when he told her to, studied her while she held still for each shot, capturing expressions I’ve never seen.
And Mia let him.
I tug at my tie. My jaw locks.
I flip back a page. Then forward again. My eyes snag on the way she’s looking just past the camera in one image.
The photographer was close. Too close.
Every expression, every glance, every slight curve of her mouth is captured.
My teeth grind together.
Another man seeing her like this? It’s unacceptable.
The guards at the gate flash through my mind, and the pieces suddenly click into place.
The delayed delivery. Donald’s reaction. The way he struggled not to smile every time the package came up.
A dangerous calm settles over me.
Two hours.
This book sat in the gatehouse for two fucking hours. Those filthy bastards were gawking at Mia.
Slowly, I close the book and slide it back into the envelope. Opening the door, I step out of the car, feeling murderous.
“Leon, replace the guards at the gate and take Donald and his partner back to the warehouse. In fact, find out if anybody else here has handled this package.”
He pauses briefly, having sensed my mood shift, then says, “Understood.”
I take a deep breath, rolling my neck from side to side in an attempt to release some of the tension coiled there. I need some semblance of calm before I enter the house.
The attempt lasts all of three seconds.
My gaze drops to the envelope tucked beneath my arm. Immediately, I remember Mia on that bed. The translucent nightgown. The black lace beneath it.
I exhale slowly through my nose.
No. Calm is not happening.
While Leon climbs into one of the vehicles trailing us to return to the gate, the rest of my security wisely keeps their distance.
“Wait out here,” I growl. Nobody argues.
I take the front steps two at a time. Simon opens the door before I can reach for the handle. I shrug off my coat and hand it to him.
“The ladies are in the sitting room,” he tells me.
Ladies.
The word almost makes me laugh. Mia looked nothing like a lady in those photographs. She looked like a siren determined to destroy a man’s self-control.
One of the images flashes through my mind again. Her dark hair is splayed over the pillow, her hand playfully resting on the swell of her breast while a perfect come-hither look is directed at the man behind the camera.
A throbbing starts behind my temples, warning of an incoming headache.
Voices and laughter drift through the partially open door. Three heads turn when I storm in.
Mia is curled into an armchair beside the fire, a book resting in her lap. Sienna occupies the sofa opposite her, while Ari is sprawled across the rug with a blanket and what appears to be an alarming quantity of snacks.
The smile vanishes from Mia’s face. She shoots to her feet so quickly the book slides from her lap onto the chair cushion.
“Don Maximo, what are—”
“Out,” I snarl, deadly calm, cutting her off.
The room goes silent. When her sisters don’t move, I direct my gaze at each girl. They seem frozen.
“Out,” I repeat. “I need a word with your sister.”
Ari blinks. Sienna looks between Mia and me. Still, neither moves. My patience, already hanging by a thread, snaps another inch.
“Now.” Something in my voice finally gets through.
Ari scrambles upright, while Sienna rises more slowly, her gaze lingering on her older sister.
“Mia?” she checks in with her.
“I’m fine.” She’s lying. She’s gone completely rigid.
The girls exchange a look before heading for the door. The moment it closes behind them, Mia takes a step closer, her eyes sparkling with fire.
She’s angry. Good. That makes two of us.
I take a few steps toward her until we meet in the middle of the room. Her chin lifts as defiant as ever.
“Care to explain what this is all about?” she asks, the challenge in both her voice and eyes unmistakable.
I’m increasingly convinced she exists solely to test me. I pull the package from beneath my arm and slide the book out.
Deliberately, I hold it up between us, giving her ample time to see it.
Her eyes dart to the book. The moment she realizes what it is, all the color drains from her face.
Mia looks like she’s praying for the floor to open and swallow her whole.
“How about you explain to me what this is all about?”