41. Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-One
Maximo
The moment we leave Aldo’s behind, Mia tries to figure out our destination. Her gaze is glued to the window as if the streets might give her a clue.
We skirt the edge of downtown, the traffic thickening as we pass. Philip drives while Leon occupies the passenger seat. He’s on his phone, making sure everything is in place for our outing. A second SUV follows us, carrying the rest of my security detail.
After spotting Romero’s men near Mia and her sisters, I’m not taking chances with her safety.
Gradually, the city changes. The skyscrapers give way to older brick storefronts, church steeples, and narrow streets lined with family-owned restaurants.
Mia glances at me, tilting her head to the side.
“Where are we going?”
I don’t look up from my phone. I’m clearing the last of my emails so Mia will have my full attention once we arrive.
“You’ve asked me that three times already.”
“And you’ve refused to answer three times.”
I suppress a smile. “Correct.”
She huffs and turns back toward the window. “That’s unreasonable.”
A few loose strands of dark hair slide across her cheek, and I resist the urge to reach over and tuck them behind her ear.
“Don’t you like surprises?”
“I love surprises.” Her voice turns sugar-sweet. “As long as they don’t come with a six-heir requirement.”
“You make it sound like an unreasonable number.”
Mia stares at me, eyebrows raised.
“Maximo, that’s because it is an unreasonable number.”
Hearing my name from her still has an absurd effect on me.
“Agree to disagree. And six is merely a starting point.”
Now she gapes at me, her mouth hanging open for a second.
“Good to know I’m being courted by a man trying to populate a small village.”
A laugh escapes me. “It would be a very successful village.”
Mia tries to appear unimpressed, but the corners of her mouth lift anyway.
“I think you should research cloning yourself instead.”
“Hmm. That would be more predictable than offspring with minds of their own, but far less satisfying to produce.”
A faint flush creeps into her cheeks before she fixes her focus on the passing scenery. A smile tugs at my mouth; she understands the innuendo.
Italian flags begin appearing on the lampposts and a turn later, we reach Taylor Street.
Despite being only a few miles from downtown, it feels like another world. The pace is slower, the buildings older, and the Italian influence impossible to miss.
When Philip pulls to the curb, Mia perks up, her gaze sweeping over the storefronts.
A bakery occupies one corner. An Italian grocer another. Several storefronts display signs in Italian. Further down the street, a restaurant glows warmly behind fogged windows, its late lunch crowd visible through the glass.
“What is this place?” she asks.
I step out of the SUV and round the car while Philip opens her door. Snow crunches beneath my shoes as I hold out my hand to help her from the car.
She eyes it suspiciously, as though I might be concealing a trap inside my gloves. After a brief hesitation, she slips her hand into mine and slides out of the backseat.
“This is Chicago’s Little Italy,” I tell her as we step onto the sidewalk.
She takes in the long street. “I didn’t know there was one here.”
Her gaze shifts to the security detail from the second vehicle, already spreading out through the area with practiced discretion.
“Do we really need all of them?” she asks.
“Yes.” I will never compromise on her security.
“It seems excessive.”
“It isn’t.” Offering my arm, I gesture toward the street. “Shall we?”
Again she hesitates before she slips her arm through the crook of my elbow.
“Chicago has several Italian neighborhoods,” I tell her as we begin walking. “But this is where much of the city’s Italian community first put down roots.”
Her gaze moves from storefront to storefront. An older couple exits a bakery carrying paper bags filled with fresh bread. Two men stand outside a café arguing loudly in Sicilian dialect.
Seeing her light up like this is worth every minute I spent keeping my distance yesterday. It had been surprisingly difficult. Mia occupied far more of my thoughts than was reasonable.
“You understood that?” I ask.
She looks at me as though I’ve asked whether she knows how to breathe.
“Of course.”
“I only caught half,” I admit.
“You need a better Sicilian teacher.”
I’ll be remedying that particular deficiency soon enough. The thought makes me chuckle. The sound earns me an instant suspicious glance.
“There you go again.”
“What?”
“Smiling.”
The accusation in her voice makes me want to smile even more.
“Should I stop?”
“Probably.”
“Unfortunately for you, I’m enjoying myself.”
“Well, that makes one of us.”
It’s a blatant lie. She’s already slowing near shop windows, looking around with open curiosity.
Ahead, a specialty grocer has stacked imported products outside its entrance. Among them sit crates of blood oranges.
She stops in front of the display and studies them with an intensity that makes me suspect she’s not seeing fruit at all. She’s seeing her home island.
“This place is owned by Sicilians,” I tell her, glancing toward the storefront. “They emigrated from Palermo. Though his wife is from Catania.”
I made sure I knew that before bringing her here.
Mia picks up one of the blood oranges, turning it in her gloved hand. Her lips curve before she returns it, her hand still resting on the crate of fruit.
“I didn’t expect this.”
Something in her expression softens. As though Chicago feels a little less foreign now. Without thinking, I place my hand over hers.
“See?” I say quietly.
Her eyes turn to mine.
“See what?”
I glance toward the two men still arguing in Sicilian outside the café, before locking onto her eyes again.
“Chicago has Italians. Sicilians. Food you’ll recognize. People who speak your language.”
Her eyes search mine, trying to determine whether there’s some ulterior motive hidden beneath the words.
“You’ll find pieces of home here, Mia.”
Silence settles between us. It’s not uncomfortable. Just… different.
Her gaze drifts back toward the bakery and the Italian flags fluttering above the street.
“I suppose that’s true.”
“Living here won’t be so bad,” I continue. “And if you ever feel homesick, you can come here and surround yourself with something familiar.”
Her gaze drops to our hands, and I follow it down. Mine is still covering hers atop the blood orange. Somehow, neither of us noticed.
Mia immediately withdraws her hand and tucks it into her coat pocket before lifting her chin, that familiar defiance returning to her expression.
“Yes, if I were living here,” she says. “But I’m going home to Sicily, remember? This is just a visit.”
I sigh, wondering how she will take the news that she definitely isn’t.
“Don’t spoil the moment,” I tease, not wanting to dwell on more trouble ahead.
She turns, laughing, and saunters down the sidewalk. I follow, enjoying the sway of her hips as she walks a few steps ahead of me.
A few shops down, Mia comes to an abrupt stop. She stares through the front window of a small bakery tucked between a café and a specialty grocer. The display case inside is filled with pastries.
Excitement lights her face. Catching my sleeve, she drags me to the door. I glance down at the hand wrapped around my arm, delighted that she initiated the touch.
“Come on,” she urges.
A bell jingles as we step inside. Warm air wraps around us. The scent of almonds, vanilla, and citrus fills the room.
Behind the counter, an elderly woman smiles in greeting, but Mia doesn’t notice. She’s already moving toward the display case.
“Look.”
I step beside her, and she points to a tray containing small pastries dusted with powdered sugar.
“Those are genovesi.”
Her expression suggests I should recognize them. I look at her blankly.
“They’re from Erice.”
The way she says it tells me that explanation should be sufficient. Unfortunately for her, it isn’t.
“Which means?”
She sighs dramatically.
“It’s a hilltop town in western Sicily. They’re famous for them.”
“I’ve never heard of it.”
She looks offended.
“The problem with you, Maximo, is that you’re tragically uncultured.”
I stare at her. She stares back, while the woman behind the counter covers a laugh.
A few minutes later, we’re seated at a small table by the window waiting for our coffees and pastries.
Outside, snow continues to drift lazily through the air while the sky grows grayer as the afternoon wears on. It doesn’t seem to bother anyone. People continue wandering past with shopping bags and takeaway coffees.
I bring my attention back to Mia. She’s watching the shopkeeper who’s currently warming up the genovesi, one foot tapping beneath the table in anticipation.
“Mialina isn’t a traditional Italian name,” I say to distract her from the wait. “I’ve never heard it before.”
She drags her gaze to me.
“That’s because it isn’t.” Her thumb rubs absentmindedly along the edge of the napkin. “My grandfather used to call my mother that when she was little. Mia, as you know, means mine in Italian, and Lena is short for Helena, which means light.”
“My light,” I repeat.
She nods. “Mamma loved it so much that she gave me that name. It’s also her way of honoring her father.”
I find myself oddly pleased by the story. It suits her. More than she’d probably like.
“Your grandfather must have adored your mother.”
“He did.”
The answer comes without hesitation.
“Then she was his favorite.”
Mia shakes her head. “Parents aren’t supposed to have favorites.”
“But they absolutely do.”
She huffs. “Good parents don’t.”
“Good parents hide it better.”
Her lips twitch. “I refuse to believe that.”
I lean back in my chair. “That’s because you’re an optimist.”
“And here I thought you took on that role for both of us,” she teases.
“What about you? Are you Alfonso Marco’s favorite?”
I chuckle. “No. My father preferred whichever son wasn’t causing him a headache.”
That earns me a smile.
“And your mother?”
The question catches me off guard.
“She loved us all equally—”
“Aha,” Mia exclaims triumphantly.
“But…” I hold up my hand. “Gabe always owned a special part of her heart. He got away with much more than the rest of us.”
“Why?”
I laugh. “I believe the night he was conceived was special to my mother.”
“Oh,” is all she says this time, her cheeks taking on a soft pink hue.
I don’t think she wants to imagine my father having sex. Nor do I, really.
“I didn’t realize your parents’ marriage was a love match.”
“It wasn’t at first. It was an arranged marriage, as you’d expect, but it turned into more,” I say, growing uncomfortable.
I don’t want her to get any ideas that ours will follow on the same path. My parents may have found love, but I have no intention of making the same mistake.
Love clouds judgment and weakens you. When it inevitably breaks, it leaves damage that takes years to repair, if ever.
We’ll have a far better marriage without it, built on loyalty, respect, and trust.
That’s all we need.