43. Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Three
Mialina
The moment the gondola door closes behind us, I realize I’ve made a mistake.
A spectacular one.
Back at the bakery, convincing Maximo to ride the Ferris wheel had seemed like my life’s mission. I wanted the big, bad Mafia Don to concede something to me. Watching him agree had felt like a victory.
Now I’m trapped inside a small glass enclosure about to be suspended high above Chicago with the very man I decided only three days ago I would avoid.
What have I done?
It’s just him and me now.
No Sienna, Ari, or bodyguards hovering a discreet distance away. Well, that’s not entirely true. The latter are occupying the cabins next to us.
What does Maximo think is going to happen? That one of his enemies will spot us here, buy a ticket, strategically occupy the adjacent gondola, and then open fire?
But that’s beside the point. What I’m trying to say is that there won’t be any convenient interruptions.
The temperature inside the gondola suddenly seems ten degrees warmer than it was thirty seconds ago.
We’ve been alone before, and it was fine, wasn’t it?
Hmm, there was the garden at Mateo’s house, where he kissed me. Damn, I need to forget that one.
The conservatory, where we almost kissed after Rory had left. Then there was the upstairs corridor after my first outing in Chicago when he cornered me against the wall, and…
Oh God, we almost kissed then, too.
That’s actually a concerning pattern.
I glance at Maximo. He’s rubbing his jaw. Seriously, the man’s bone structure is so chiseled, looking at him should come with a warning label.
Caution: Prolonged exposure may result in temporary lapses in common sense. The manufacturer accepts no liability for spontaneous poor life choices.
Good grief.
The air conditioning really is set too hot in here. I wipe at my brow before unzipping my jacket and unwinding my scarf from around my neck.
I’m still too warm.
With a huff, I take off the offending layers and place them on the bench beside me, focusing on the city skyline.
The falling snow blurs it and turns the towering buildings into softened silhouettes beneath a sky the color of pewter. Somewhere beyond the thickening clouds, the sun is beginning its descent, giving everything a strange glow.
Unfortunately, I’m far too aware of the man sitting opposite me to appreciate the view.
His aftershave seems to have taken over the entire space, all clean cedar and spice, making it impossible to forget that he’s so close.
I look at him.
His attention is already on me. Knowing him, he’s been watching me all along. Heat creeps into my cheeks.
The silence stretching between us seems to amplify every sound.
The low mechanical hum of the wheel and the gentle creak of the gondola continue as it slowly ascends.
Wind and snow skitter against the glass while somewhere far below, muffled voices and music drift up.
And beneath it all, the slow, steady rhythm of Maximo’s breathing.
My gaze catches on the broad line of his shoulders stretching the fabric of his coat and stays there for a moment longer than it should.
Everything about the man seems designed to dominate his surroundings. Even sitting still, he somehow makes this gondola feel smaller, his quiet confidence filling every inch of the space.
He’s leaning forward, his forearms resting on his thighs, his hands loosely clasped together. I tell myself to look out the window and admire the snow-covered city and lake, and not pay attention to Maximo.
Still, my gaze drifts to his hands.
I know how strong they are.
Strong enough that when he’d pinned me against the wall outside my bedroom, escaping hadn’t even crossed my mind. Instead, it made my blood boil. Sadly, not with rage.
Even now, the memory makes my pulse stumble. Honestly, my body is becoming a liability.
“You’ve gone quiet.” His voice is low, smooth enough that it sends an unwelcome shiver down my spine.
I clear my throat and continue staring out the window.
“I’m looking at the view. You should try it before the ride is over,” I tease, but my voice isn’t as steady as I’d like.
“Hmm.”
That’s all he says. The city view appears to hold no interest for him, his attention remaining fixed on me.
My stomach does a small, unwelcome flip.
From my periphery, I see the corner of his mouth shift. Whatever fleeting reaction crossed my face, he’d caught it.
Maximo seems to notice everything, and I have the increasingly uncomfortable suspicion that my expressions are becoming far easier for him to read than I’d like.
The gondola reaches its highest point, suspended between sky and earth. Chicago stretches toward the horizon, vast and imposing.
“Your city,” I murmur, glancing at Maximo.
For the first time since we stepped into the gondola, his attention shifts away from me and settles on the view.
“Yes.”
It’s only a single word, spoken quietly, yet something about the way he says it makes me study him more.
There isn’t a trace of arrogance in his voice, nor the pride I’d expect from a man who commands an empire. Just certainty, as though there has never been any question that one day all of this would become his responsibility.
I’ve known who Maximo Marco is since the day we met. People obey him, fear and respect him. Until now, though, those had always felt like facts I’d been told rather than something I truly understood.
Being here with him while he looks out over Chicago, it finally clicks.
This isn’t merely the city where he lives, nor is it territory outlined on a map that happens to fall under his control. Somewhere beneath those snow-covered rooftops are thousands of people who rely, knowingly or not, on the decisions he makes every day.
There are businesses carrying his family’s name, men who answer to him, allies who expect him to keep his word, and enemies waiting for him to fail.
All of it is his to protect, and from the way he watches the skyline, I suspect he has never once questioned that it was his duty.
He grew up knowing who he was expected to become. Just like me, he had his entire future mapped out before he was old enough to understand it.
But unlike me, Maximo embraced what was chosen for him and accepted it so completely that it’s become part of who he is.
“What would you have done if you’d had a choice?” I ask, leaning forward.
A slight crease appears between his brows. “What do you mean?”
“If you hadn’t been born into this life, and nobody had expected you to become Don.” I gesture toward the city below. “If you could wake up tomorrow and be anyone, do anything, what would you choose?”
The gondola sways as a strong gust of wind catches it. Silence stretches as he considers the question with far more seriousness than I’d expected.
Finally, he shakes his head. “I don’t know.”
I stare at him. “Really?”
A faint smile touches his mouth. “It’s the truth.”
The surprise must show on my face because he adds, “I’ve never considered any other possibility.”
I believe him.
“What would have been the point?” he adds quietly. “Wishing for a different life wouldn’t have changed the one I was born into. It would only have distracted me from preparing for it.”
I let that settle for a moment as I look back over the city.
It’s such a different way of seeing the world from my own that I’m not sure how to respond.
I’ve spent years imagining different futures, even if none of them had seemed attainable while Father was alive. They’d remained little more than daydreams, something to indulge in before reality inevitably came crashing back.
Now they seem within reach.
Isa has chosen her own path, and I’m more determined than ever to follow in her footsteps.
As the wheel begins its slow descent, my attention wanders to a gondola that’s just reached the top.
A young family fills the small compartment.
The little boy, perhaps four years old, has climbed onto the seat and presses both hands against the glass, his face glowing with excitement as he points toward the snow-covered city below.
His younger sister scrambles up beside him, determined not to miss whatever has captured her brother’s attention, while their parents watch with quiet amusement.
“Why six?” I ask, glancing at Maximo before looking back at the family.
He follows my line of sight, stretching out his arms on top of the backrest.
“Your parents only had four, and that seems to have worked out.”
“They did,” he agrees. “But my father also buried two children before I was born.”
That catches me off guard. “I didn’t know.”
“Most people don’t.” His voice remains even, but there’s something quieter beneath it.
“In our world, nothing is guaranteed. Illness. Violence. Accidents.” He shrugs one shoulder. “You hope every child reaches adulthood, but you don’t build your family’s future assuming they all will.”
I open my mouth to argue, then close it again. As grim as it sounds, I can’t really fault the logic.
“So six is… contingency planning?”
A corner of his mouth lifts. “If you want to call it that.”
I shake my head. “That sounds too calculated.”
“I’m the Don. My responsibility is to ensure my family and legacy live on.”
I study him for a moment.
“What if you have only girls like my father did?” I challenge. “Will they become your heirs and usher in a new, desperately needed era for the mafia?”
A hint of amusement touches his face. “No. We will have at least one son who will succeed me.”
The certainty in his voice is almost laughable.
“And if you don’t?” I insist.
“We’ll continue growing our family until we do.”
We.
He says it so matter-of-factly that for a fleeting moment it’s almost possible to forget we’re discussing a completely fictional future. One in which I’ve apparently agreed to marry him and produce a small soccer team of Marco children.
In Maximo’s mind, my refusal doesn’t seem to feature in the equation at all. It only strengthens my resolve to prove him wrong.
“My father believed that too,” I say. “Until my mother miscarried another girl after Ari was born.”
“I am not your father.”
“No,” I agree. “But you’re every bit as stubborn about believing something you have no influence over.”
He leans forward again, resting his forearms on his thighs, and is quiet for a moment before answering.
“If, despite our best efforts, we don’t have a son, the responsibility will pass to the next suitable male in my family.”
I frown. “One of your brothers’ sons?”
“If they’re worthy.”
I stare at him, wondering whether he’s actually serious. Judging by the complete absence of humor on his face, he is.
“So you would cast your own flesh and blood aside?” I ask. “There are already women leading families these days, you know.”
“There are,” he agrees. “But almost without exception, they’ve assumed that duty because there wasn’t a suitable man to do so.”
I let out a quiet huff. “That’s such a chauvinistic thing to say. There are ambitious women who want power. But you make it sound as though they’re somehow second-best.”
“I said no such thing.”
“You implied it.”
“No.” His gaze remains steady on mine. “I said a woman shouldn’t have to carry that obligation in the first place.”
“And who decided that?”
“Nature.”
I cock my head to the side, my eyes wide.
Is he serious?
“Oh, now you’re blaming biology.”
“I’m acknowledging it.”
His tone remains frustratingly calm, as though he’s explaining something so self-evident it scarcely requires discussion.
“Men and women were not made for the same purpose, Mia. A man builds, protects, and when necessary, fights. A woman creates a home worth returning to. She raises children and keeps her family together.”
“You’ve just described a woman as furniture.”
“I described her as the foundation.”
I narrow my eyes. “You genuinely believe all of that, don’t you?”
“I do.”
“And if one of your daughters decided she wanted to lead your family?”
His expression doesn’t change. “Then I’d consider it my failure as her father.”
“Because she’d be incapable?”
“Because somewhere along the way I failed to convince her that there are burdens no loving father should ever wish his daughter to carry.”
I stare at him. There’s a good chance my mouth is hanging open too.
Usually, if someone says something I disagree with, a dozen arguments spring to mind. I can debate, reason, and point out every flaw in their logic until they either concede or walk away in exasperation.
Right now, though, I’m too stunned to formulate a coherent sentence.
While I have absolutely no ambition to ever lead a mafia family, if one of my daughters wanted that authority one day, who would I be to tell her she couldn’t simply because she’d been born a girl?
How can someone as intelligent as Maximo believe this?
Next he’ll be telling me that women should embroider their husband’s initials onto handkerchiefs.
The thought should make me laugh, but it doesn’t.
Only a few minutes ago I’d been worried that being alone with him in this tiny gondola might lead to yet another almost-kiss. Looking at him now, I can’t imagine anything I’d want to do less.
Good. Perhaps this is exactly what I needed.
Because whatever attraction my traitorous body seems to have developed toward Maximo Marco, it isn’t beyond saving.
All I need is a reminder that beneath the handsome face and those dark eyes lurks someone whose views belong in another century.
I really do need to make out with another man to erase the kiss Maximo seems to have imprinted in my memory.
Preferably soon.
As we’re nearing the bottom of the wheel, I pick up my coat and scarf. I want to get out of here.
“I should have kissed that guy longer,” I mutter to myself as I shrug into my coat, preparing for the wintry assault the moment the doors open.
Maybe it would have worked had I given it a little more time. He was a cute guy after all.
Argh, who am I kidding? It wouldn’t have.
I just need to find someone else. Perhaps Rory can help with that.
“What?”
Maximo’s voice cuts through my thoughts. His eyes have narrowed so much I’m surprised he can still see.
I freeze.
Oh no. I hadn’t meant to say that aloud.
The gondola gives a gentle jolt as it reaches the platform, and the doors begin to slide open.
I shoot to my feet, desperate to escape before he can ask any more questions. But instead of leaving well enough alone, I glance back over my shoulder.
“I kissed another man after you.”
Why do I have the urge to taunt this man? It’s a bad idea.
Maximo’s expression grows darker, and my self-preservation finally kicks in.
I rush to leave, but barely make it half a step before his hand closes around my wrist and he pulls me back.
I stumble straight into the solid wall of his chest, the impact stealing what little breath I have left. His hands close around my upper arms to steady me, or perhaps to stop me from bolting out of the gondola the moment he lets go.
“Close the doors,” Maximo says to the operator outside, his voice so calm it puts me on edge.
“What?” I twist to look up at him.
“We’re going around again.”