46. Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Six
Mialina
The lights of the skyscrapers around us scatter across the dark water in rippling ribbons of gold and white as Maximo and I walk along the river toward the restaurant he chose for us.
Our breaths drift through the frigid air in little white clouds. My scarf is wrapped right up to my chin, my gloves keep my fingers warm, and my thick wool coat has done a commendable job of shielding me from Chicago’s latest attempt to freeze me solid.
Unfortunately, my nose didn’t get the memo. It could be moments away from declaring independence and falling off altogether.
My arm is linked with Maximo’s. Only to make sure I don’t slip.
This could be considered a little romantic if it weren’t for the wall of heavily armed men walking ahead and behind us.
“The weather seems determined to remind me that I’m not in Sicily,” I say, gripping Max’s arm a little tighter when my foot slides on an icy patch.
He slows his pace until he’s assured himself I’m steady again.
He chuckles. “You’ll get used to it.”
I scowl at him. “Ha, I most certainly won’t. I’m very much looking forward to returning to civilized temperatures,” I retort, smiling sweetly.
“Sure, we can visit Sicily for a short vacation at some point.”
I stop walking and just stare at him. Normally, a comment like that would set me off, but right now, it just makes me laugh.
“You’re incorrigible. But it’s good to have dreams.”
He smiles down at me. “It is, and I intend to make mine come true.”
I nudge him with my elbow. “Shouldn’t you have said, ‘my only goal is to make your dreams come true, Mialina’? You know, to woo me.”
“No. Because if I said that, we’d both know I was lying.”
I grin up at him. It’s true.
We continue on in comfortable silence, the city glittering around us.
We reach a gleaming glass tower, and Maximo lets go of my arm. His hand shifts to the lower part of my back, guiding me up the stairs to the restaurant occupying the lower floor.
I brush snow from my sleeve as the doorman pulls open the entrance, and a wave of warmth washes over me.
Inside, a sharply dressed ma?tre d’ spots us immediately and heads our way.
“Good evening, Mr. Marco.”
“Evening, Daniel.”
The familiarity catches my attention. He must be a regular here.
How many women has he brought here over the years?
A stab of annoyance slices into me.
“Miss Accardi, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” Daniel inclines his head as I hand over my coat.
How does he know my name? Does he greet all of Maximo’s guests like that?
I raise an eyebrow at my dinner companion, but he doesn’t react.
“You arrived at a good time, sir,” Daniel says, glancing toward the windows where the snow is falling harder now beneath the streetlights. “It’s supposed to get much worse soon. The forecast even predicts a storm later tonight.”
I’ve never experienced a winter storm. Part of me is actually looking forward to it. So long as I’m indoors beside a fire. We should be back at Aldo’s by then, right?
“That’s what they said yesterday too,” Maximo replies.
Daniel guides us through the restaurant toward the floor-to-ceiling windows. “Fair point. Although this one has the meteorologists unusually confident.”
We continue on, and I watch Maximo as he greets employees by name. A manager stops to welcome him while another staff member nods respectfully as we pass.
“Do you own this place?” I ask, curious given how familiar everyone seems with him.
“Yes, the whole building, actually.”
I stare at him. Honestly, why am I surprised?
Maximo Marco probably collects skyscrapers the way normal people collect watches.
Daniel comes to a stop at a secluded spot overlooking the river. “Your usual table, Mr. Marco.”
“Thank you.”
As I sit, my gaze drifts across the dining room. Several of our guards take seats at nearby tables, positioning themselves where they can keep an eye on both us and the restaurant entrance.
“Do they get dinner as well, or do they have to watch everybody else eating?” I ask once Daniel has left, gesturing toward them.
Maximo follows my gaze. “They eat.”
“That’s reassuring.” I peer back at the guards. “If they’re supposed to blend in, they’re doing a terrible job.”
“Only because you know what to look for.”
Before I can say any more, our server arrives. “Good evening, ma’am,” he says to me before turning to Maximo. “Mr. Marco, welcome back.”
“Thank you, Jonas.” Maximo glances at me. “Take good care of my date tonight.”
Date?
The word lands like a grenade.
Oh God, I hadn’t connected those dots.
I probably should be glad he didn’t introduce me as his fiancée or the future Mrs. Marco. It’s a small mercy, given how certain he seems to be that this is going to happen.
This is actually my first date. Ever.
And of all people, it has to be with Don Maximo Marco. I’d always imagined it would happen differently, with someone I wanted to date.
My life has developed an irritating sense of humor.
“Of course, sir,” Jonas replies.
He hands Maximo the menu before filling our glasses with sparkling water. I wait for a menu of my own, but apparently, I’m not getting one.
“We’ll have the lobster bisque to begin,” Maximo says, handing back the menu without opening it. “Followed by the miso-glazed black cod for Miss Accardi. The filet mignon for me. We’ll share the charred asparagus and pommes purée.”
“Very good, Mr. Marco.”
He glances at Jonas. “And a bottle of Cervaro della Sala.”
“Excellent choice, sir.”
Once Jonas disappears, I turn my attention to Maximo.
“Do you always order for your… dates?”
“Did you object to any of my choices?” he asks instead of answering my question.
I sigh. “I hate to admit it, but no. Somehow you seem to know what I like. Coincidence, I wonder?”
Again, he doesn’t answer.
One arm rests along the table, the other on the arm of his chair, his posture relaxed. A smile tugs at his mouth, confirming my suspicion without admitting a thing.
“If your choices for me turn out to be terrible, I reserve the right to complain all evening.”
“I’ll take that risk,” he laughs.
It’s rich, warm, and entirely too attractive. The sound sends a flutter through my chest.
“I’m sure you’ll enjoy it. The food here is exceptional.”
His eyes gleam, and God help me, it makes him look more youthful than the ancient thirty-one years he’s got under his belt.
“And just for the record, I’ll be ordering for you a lot. It’s one of the ways I enjoy looking after a woman.” His gaze holds mine. “I take great pleasure in making sure she’s satisfied.”
The innuendo lands as intended.
Heat rushes straight to my cheeks, and unfortunately, lower too. I press my legs together, thankful he can’t see below the table.
“That’s an outrageous thing to say to someone on a first date.”
He smirks. “It would be if we had just met. But we’ve been sparring since the day we met eight weeks ago.”
Has it only been eight weeks? It feels much longer than that, like Maximo has been in my life for years.
“Good evening, Mr. Marco,” another member of staff says as he approaches our table carrying the bottle of wine Maximo ordered.
“Oh, am I allowed to drink wine tonight, or will you insist on water or orange juice again?”
Maximo grins at me. “You may enjoy a glass tonight. It goes better with your food.”
I may?
I roll my eyes. Five days ago I’d been destined to spend the evening with nothing stronger than orange juice. Convenient how his rules seem to change whenever it suits him.
Unperturbed by our conversation about the legal drinking age, the sommelier presents the label to Maximo, who studies it for a brief moment before inclining his head.
With practiced precision, the sommelier uncorks the bottle and pours a small measure into Maximo’s glass.
I watch as Maximo swirls the pale golden wine, inhales its aroma, then takes a measured sip. Satisfied, he gives the sommelier a nod.
The man fills my glass first, then Maximo’s, before stepping back.
“Enjoy your evening.”
“Thank you,” Maximo replies.
I lift my glass and take a sip. The wine is crisp and silky at once, tasting of ripe peach and citrus with just enough richness to linger on my tongue.
Maximo watches me, taking in every reaction that crosses my face. Before that satisfied smile of his can grow any wider, I tear my gaze away and let it wander over the restaurant.
Conversation around us rises and falls. Glasses clink. Someone laughs.
My gaze catches on a table diagonally from us where three men are seated. One is older, like the patriarch of a family. The other two are younger, his sons, perhaps, for they share the same fair coloring and strong noses.
They’re dressed well enough to blend into the restaurant’s wealthy clientele, but they stand out anyway.
It’s hard to put into words, but there’s a different air about them.
The older man exudes the effortless authority of someone accustomed to being obeyed. Broad-shouldered despite his age, with iron-gray hair and a weathered face, he reminds me of the cliffs along the Sicilian coastline. Solid, unmoving, and dangerous.
The younger men carry themselves similarly. Their light brown hair is cut short at the sides, and their eyes seem to be a darker shade of a winter sea. The younger of the two looks relaxed. The other merely pretends to be.
Despite his loose, almost casual posture, something about him puts me on edge. And it’s not the faint scar that disappears into the collar of his shirt.
Even seated, he radiates contained violence. Not the polished, controlled kind Maximo projects, but something rougher. Like a dog straining against a leash. The sort of man who might smile while breaking someone’s nose.
A chill crawls down my spine.
Perhaps it’s the way his gaze keeps sweeping the room with a complete lack of warmth in his expression. Or maybe it’s simply instinct. I never want anything to do with him.
Jonas arrives with our food and places each plate before us.
For a few moments, the conversation gives way to the sort of appreciative silence only good food deserves.
I take another bite of the black cod before my gaze wanders back to the table with the three men.
That feeling of danger only grows stronger.
I observe them for another few seconds. The older man says something, and the man with the scar stares in our direction.
He doesn’t look away when he notices my eyes on him. I shift in my chair, fiddling with my napkin.
Lowering my voice, I say to Maximo, “Those men are watching us.”
He calmly cuts into his steak.
“I know.” Then he adds, “They have been since they arrived.”
“They seem… dangerous.”
Maximo doesn’t spare them a glance.
“They are, but right now they aren’t a threat.”
I frown. “And how do you know that?”
“Because if they were, we wouldn’t still be sitting here.”
The certainty in his voice makes me pause. He truly believes it, as if there’s no scenario where we’d remain seated if there were actual danger.
I try not to but sneak another look at the men.
“What do they want?”
His gaze follows mine for the first time.
“They’re assessing.”
“Assessing what?”
His eyes settle on me and don’t leave. It’s strangely grounding and some of my unease drains away.
“You.”
The unease returns with a vengeance.
I set down my fork. “Why?”
“The older man is Cormac Donnelly.”
The name takes a second to register.
“The Donnellys?”
“Yes.”
My stomach drops. They’re the family my father pledged me to.
The warmth of the dining room does nothing to stop the chill spreading through me.
“And the younger one who looks like he’d break someone’s bones for fun?”
“Shay Donnelly, the heir to the Blackthorn Syndicate.”
Oh God. He’s my supposed fiancé.