42. Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Two
Maximo
“To be honest, Mamma and I always had a close bond,” Mia says after a few beats, returning to our earlier conversation.
The careful phrasing gives me something else to focus on besides the emotions I’d rather keep buried.
I incline my head, studying her. Mia doesn’t call herself Caterina’s favorite, nor does she claim to have been closer to her than her sisters. Yet something in her tone suggests the relationship means more to her than she’s willing to explain.
Before I can probe her more on it, our espressos and genovesi arrive.
Any chance of continuing the conversation dies as Mia’s entire focus shifts to the pastry being placed in front of her.
I’ve never seen anyone so pleased to receive baked goods. I’ll have to add them to our dessert menu at home.
As soon as the shopkeeper leaves, she picks up a pastry and takes her first bite. Her eyes close and a look of pure satisfaction settles over her features.
“Oh, that’s good,” she all but moans.
I lean back in my chair. “You sound surprised.”
“I wasn’t expecting it to be this authentic.”
The baker, who is still within earshot, narrows her eyes. Mia immediately notices.
“So sorry,” she calls. “They’re perfect.”
The woman beams. Crisis averted.
Mia takes another bite, then another. A dusting of powdered sugar catches at the corner of her mouth, and she swipes her tongue across her lips to collect it.
I wish I could claim that the sight leaves me unaffected, but I’d be lying. I shift in my seat and focus on my espresso instead.
The next second, my gaze wanders back to Mia. Her eyes are closed again, completely absorbed in the pastry.
When they open and find mine, they’re bright with uncomplicated happiness. The brown of her irises has warmed to rich amber, tiny flecks of gold catching the pale winter light streaming through the window.
Then her gaze drops to the untouched pastry in front of me, and the contentment fades into a small frown.
“Why aren’t you eating?”
“I don’t have a sweet tooth like you.”
She rolls her eyes. One of the more dramatic versions.
I’ve counted seventeen different eye rolls in Mia’s repertoire so far, each conveying a subtly different degree of exasperation. A few suggest she’s contemplating homicide.
This particular one is pure displeasure.
“That’s because you haven’t tried these genovesi yet.”
She nudges my plate toward me. “Try it.”
The anticipation on her face makes refusal impossible. I reach for the pastry, enjoying how invested Mia is in watching me.
When I take a bite, she smiles.
And it’s not the polite smile she uses for strangers, or the sarcastic one she reserves for me when she’s being difficult. This one is genuine, warm enough to transform her entire face.
“Well?”
I take my time chewing while Mia watches me with an intensity usually reserved for hostage negotiations.
The pastry is warm and surprisingly delicate. The custard filling is smooth, the citrus notes pleasant enough. But it’s far too sweet.
“It’s acceptable,” I say.
Her jaw drops. “Acceptable?”
As expected, she doesn’t appreciate that response.
I shrug. “It’s food.”
“It’s excellent food.”
Another bite disappears before she points accusingly at the pastry in my hand.
“You clearly like it.”
“I didn’t say I don’t.”
“You called it acceptable.”
“Which it is.”
Her outrage is entertaining. Sweets have never held much appeal for me. My tastes run toward stronger things. Bitter things. Things that linger.
She lets out an exasperated huff. “You’re impossible.”
“That’s rich coming from you,” I tease and am rewarded with another eye roll.
Number twelve, perhaps: aggrieved disbelief. Or possibly thirteen: mild contempt.
“We’ll have to work on that,” I tell her, my eyes narrowing.
She steals the last genovesi from my plate and is about to take a bite when my words register. The pastry freezes inches from her mouth.
“Work on what?” she asks.
“The eye-rolling. It’s becoming excessive.”
She scowls at me. “It’s necessary with you.”
The corner of my mouth twitches, but I suppress it, aiming for a stern expression.
“Once we’re married, I’ll expect improvements.”
A groan escapes her, loud enough that several nearby customers look over.
“There it is,” she mumbles.
“What?” I ask, lifting a brow.
“The thing where we’re having a perfectly pleasant afternoon and you insist on ruining it.”
I lean back in my chair. “Discussing our future isn’t ruining it.”
“For you, maybe.”
“It’s an important topic.”
“How is eye-rolling important?”
“It shows disrespect. I can’t have that in my wife.”
She points the remainder of her pastry at me. “Good thing then I’m not going to be your wife, Don Maximo.”
I smile, and she immediately looks suspicious again.
“I’ll spare you my optimistic response then,” I reply.
“Good.” She pops the last bite of pastry into her mouth. “They’re getting boring.”
I take a sip of my espresso, but never take my eyes off her. Mia glances out the window. People move along the sidewalk as the snow falls harder now.
Then her gaze catches on something and her eyes sparkle. Whatever has caught her attention, she’s already committed to.
Following her line of sight, I suppress an inward groan. It isn’t difficult to guess what’s coming next.
She pushes back her chair and stands. The guards at the next table rise as well, but I wave them off. There are enough men outside to keep an eye on her.
The bell above the café door chimes as Mia steps onto the sidewalk. She heads straight for a stand of tourist brochures, studies them for all of three seconds, then plucks one free with an expression of unmistakable triumph before hurrying back inside.
She places it between us on the table. When I finally lower my gaze, the cover confirms what I expected.
Navy Pier, the Ferris wheel dominating the front.
“No,” I say immediately.
Her eyes widen with exaggerated innocence.
“You haven’t even heard my suggestion.”
I slide the brochure back across the table. “It’s the Ferris wheel, and you want to go on it.”
“Yes, I do.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m an adult.”
She blinks. For a moment, I think she’s going to challenge that statement. Instead, she attempts to reason.
“This isn’t a kid’s ride or some high-speed carnival attraction. They’re built so people can enjoy the view.”
I take another sip of espresso, not saying another word, hoping it’s answer enough for her. Across from me, she studies me as if I’m a particularly stubborn animal.
I recognize the expression. She’s looking for weaknesses. Unfortunately for her, I have none.
“You’re afraid of heights.”
I nearly choke on my drink. Of all the conclusions she could have reached, that one never crossed my mind. Fear gets trained out of us early.
“Mia.” I let out an exasperated breath. “Trying to challenge me to prove to you that I’m not isn’t going to work.”
“Fine. But what if I wanted to admire the city you reign over so efficiently from above?”
“You’re trying flattery now?”
“Not really.”
I look at her deadpan. “Okay, maybe a little.”
“If you want to see the city from above, I’ll take you on a helicopter ride.”
“That’s not the same. It’s noisy and moves too fast. The Centennial Wheel will be relaxing.”
I stare at her, willing her to drop it.
“Come on, Maximo. You’re the one who wants me to like it here. Remember what you said earlier? You only brought me to Little Italy to remind me of home. I’m making an effort to like this city.”
Unfortunately, she’s making perfect sense. Worse, she’s using my own argument against me. I do want her to like it here.
“Pretty please?” She blinks rapidly and widens her eyes just enough to be entirely transparent about what she’s doing.
It’s manipulative and shameless. Worse, it’s effective.
“Have you ever been on it?”
“Of course not.” The idea alone is preposterous.
A grin spreads across her face. “Then that can be an experience that’s a first for both of us.”
The little menace. She chose those words deliberately.
First…
The thought alone makes my blood rush south again. I want to claim all her firsts.
Across the table, her eyes sparkle with triumph. I lean back in my chair, refusing to concede defeat just yet.
“I run a criminal empire. I don’t do tourist attractions.”
She waves a dismissive hand. “You can blame that un-mobster activity on me. After all, I am a tourist in this city.”
There she goes again, talking as though she’ll be leaving.
“Come on,” she coaxes. “It’ll be fun. Who knows? It might even help you realize I’m an unsuitable choice for a wife. It could save you weeks of pursuing me.”
Not a chance.
On paper, she’s everything I was looking for. And in person, that list only seems to be getting longer.
Somewhere along the way, spending time with Mia has become something I enjoy.
“Now who’s the optimistic one?”