51. Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-One
Mialina
Snuggled against Maximo’s side, my fingers twitch with the sudden urge to slide under his shirt and across his back, to discover whether the hard muscles there are as solid as they seem.
No. Bad Mia.
That road leads nowhere sensible.
I clear my throat.
“What was it like growing up as the Don’s son?” I ask, partly because I’m curious and partly because I need my mind occupied with something other than Maximo Marco’s firm muscles.
He thinks for a moment, probably debating what he can tell me.
“My father never believed it was his responsibility to shield us from hardship,” Maximo says. “His responsibility was to prepare us for the world we’d inherit.”
“Meaning what?”
“Discipline. Responsibility. Control. He expected us to be able to make difficult decisions without hesitation and to carry the consequences without complaint.”
He goes quiet as if remembering when those words were spoken.
“He used to say that comfort breeds weakness.”
I glance up at him. “That’s a rather bleak philosophy.”
One corner of his mouth lifts. “Perhaps. But it was effective.”
He gets a faraway look.
“If one of us fell, he expected us to get back up. If we argued, we settled it ourselves, or we all had to deal with the consequences.”
He pauses before adding, “He wasn’t merely raising sons, but future Dons.”
There’s neither pride nor resentment in his voice. He states it as one might remark that the sky is blue.
I try to picture Maximo and his brothers growing up beneath the weight of those expectations, always knowing that one day an entire organization would become theirs to carry.
“What about you?” he asks. “I don’t imagine growing up as Antonio Accardi’s daughter was easy.”
A humorless laugh escapes me.
“To be honest, we hardly saw Father.”
Maximo moves his head to look at me, but I keep mine on his shoulder.
“He didn’t stay often at the family estate. Most nights he was in Catania, at his own place. He preferred it that way.” I pause before adding, “The rest of us did too.”
Maximo’s hand tightens around my shoulder. In sympathy or disapproval? Perhaps both.
“You could always tell when he was home,” I continue. “It was as though a wave of cold rolled through the house. The staff was on alert, my sisters stopped laughing, and Mamma became quieter.”
The memories come back with surprising clarity.
“Everyone walked on eggshells, waiting for someone to make a mistake.”
I pull the blanket a little tighter around myself.
“He hardly paid any attention to us unless we’d done something wrong. Then he wanted us in his office.”
I meet Maximo’s gaze.
“That was never a good sign.”
“What happened?”
“He’d tell us where we’d fallen short, or remind us what he expected from us.” I shrug lightly. “There was never any praise.”
Maximo is quiet for a moment.
“And your mother?”
A genuine smile finds its way onto my face.
“Mamma did everything she could to make up for it.”
“How did you spend your days?” Maximo asks.
“We weren’t allowed to leave the estate often, but thankfully the property stretches all the way down to the sea, and the beach is private.”
I can almost smell the salt air.
“We spent hours there. Swimming, playing badminton, reading in the shade…” I smile at the memories. “It was our little escape.”
For a while, Maximo says nothing.
I wonder whether he’s picturing it too. Five girls racing along the shoreline while Mamma watched from a sun lounger with a lemon granita slowly melting beside her.
“Your father was ambitious,” he says after a pause.
I snort. “That’s one way of putting it. Becoming consigliere had been Father’s obsession for as long as I could remember. More power was the last thing his ego needed, yet it never stopped him from chasing it with single-minded determination.”
Now we’ll never know whether Don Gualtiero would have entrusted him with the position, or whether Mateo eventually might have. If I’m being completely honest, I’m grateful neither ever had the chance.
It’s not a sentiment I’d voice out loud, but that doesn’t make it any less true.
Maximo watches the flames before turning his attention back to me.
“What did you think of it?”
I smile faintly.
“Our father didn’t raise us to have opinions.”
One of Maximo’s eyebrows rises.
“Somehow, I find it difficult to believe you don’t have one.”
I laugh, the sound surprising even me.
“Fine. He didn’t raise us to voice them. All he wanted from us was obedience.” Peeking up at him, I add, “I bet in that regard, you’re just like him.”
His eyes sparkle and the edges of his mouth twitch.
“Yes, as my wife, I’ll want you obedient, but you’re allowed to have opinions.”
“How generous of you,” I reply with a smirk.
Since that day will never come, I can laugh about it.
“Good thing then that Mamma encouraged us to think for ourselves. She taught us to pay attention, to really see the people around us.”
Maximo tilts his head so it rests on mine for a few heartbeats.
“In what way?”
“She always said that people reveal far more than they intend to if you’re willing to watch closely and listen.”
My thoughts drift back to long afternoons on the terrace, Mamma somehow turning ordinary conversations into life lessons.
“She’d ask us why someone seemed distracted, or why a guest had become quiet halfway through dinner. She taught us to notice the little things. Body language. Tone of voice. The way people looked at each other.”
I smile to myself. “She believed most trouble announced itself before it arrived. You just had to recognize the signs.”
I peek up at him.
“Like you, Don Maximo. I knew you were trouble as soon as you stepped onto that lawn when we were playing badminton.”
A low chuckle rumbles through his chest beneath my cheek.
“Why did you think that?” he asks, sounding genuinely curious.
I smirk, because in hindsight I was proven right.
“You seemed to have an agenda that went far beyond leveling out the numbers in a game.”
“It’s true.” His fingers idly trace a slow path up and down my arm beneath the blanket. “I watched you for a while. There was something about you that drew my attention. Then Mateo told me who you were.”
His expression turns distant, as though he’s remembering the afternoon we met.
“From that moment, I knew you’d become my wife.” I huff at that, shaking my head. “And I always get what I want.”
I look at him, searching his face for a sign that he’s teasing, but there isn’t any. At least he’s not denying that he joined me on purpose.
“There’s that impossible confidence of yours again. I might not share your impressive track record when it comes to getting what I want…” In fact, it’s the opposite. “But with Father gone now, I’m determined to start it. And I don’t want to get married yet… especially not to you.”
“And yet you kissed me.”
Heat creeps into my cheeks as the Ferris wheel flashes through my mind despite my best efforts to stop it.
I’d like to argue that it was a mistake, that it shouldn’t have happened. The problem is, I’d enjoyed every second of it.
I master as much indignation as I can. “You started it.”
“I did. And you kissed me back. Quite passionately, I might add.”
My face is positively on fire now, and for the briefest second, I contemplate stepping outside onto the terrace despite the winter storm just to cool off.
When I turn back to him, his face is right there.
My eyes drop to his lips, and my traitorous mind reminds me what they felt like against mine.
I move away just enough so that our shoulders no longer touch, pretending to adjust the blanket when really I’m trying to put a little distance between us.
Maximo observes the maneuver with too much interest.
“You can put as much space between us as you like, little rebel.” His gaze drops to my lips. “It won’t change what happened.”
“Just because we kissed doesn’t mean we’re getting married,” I say, rolling my eyes.
“Though it proved that we have chemistry.”
“Perhaps.” It’s all I’m willing to concede.
We’re venturing into territory I’d much like to vacate. Best to steer this conversation somewhere safer before it does permanent damage to my blood pressure.
“You’ve been unusually thoughtful today,” I remark.
“No,” he says. “You’ve simply never been in a position to see this side of me.”
His eyes lock on mine.
“I take good care of what’s mine. As my wife, you’ll always be well looked after.”
I look at him, really look at him. There isn’t a trace of arrogance in his expression now.
“I don’t doubt that.”
I try to articulate what exactly bothers me about him… without my usual snark.
“It’s your view on women and their place in the world I don’t like. Your insistence on six heirs… oh sorry, a minimum of six heirs when I’m only nineteen—”
“It’s the perfect age for a woman to have her first baby.”
“Only in your world. Most women these days wait until they’re thirty.”
“I could be killed tomorrow. I need to secure my line.”
“You have three brothers. Your family isn’t exactly on the brink of dying out.”
“It’s my duty as head of the family, and not one I intend to neglect. It’s not negotiable, Mialina.”
Uh-oh. He’s using my full name.
This conversation is chasing its own tail. Neither of us is going to convince the other tonight, and judging by the stubborn man beside me, probably not in the next fifty years either.
Silence settles between us, broken only by the soft crackle of the fire.
“Tell me about your brothers,” I say, steering us onto safer ground. “You seem close.”
“We are.”
“All of you?”
He takes a moment, as if deciding where to begin.
“In different ways.”
I wait, resisting the urge to fill the silence.
“I’m probably closest to Gabe.”
That doesn’t surprise me. I suspected as much. I liked Gabe when we talked at Aldo’s birthday ball.
“We’re quite alike,” Maximo says. “We tend to arrive at the same conclusions.”
“Your humor is definitely similar.”
He chuckles. “So I’ve been told. He’ll officially take over as consigliere when Aldo retires.”
“When will that be?”
“There’s no set timeline,” Maximo says. “Aldo intends to stay on for a few more years.”
I file that away.
Does Mamma know about Aldo’s plans? I guess they had ample time to discuss it on their little trip.
“What about Rafa and Remo?”
Maximo leans back more, his gaze settling on the dancing flames.
“Rafa can be…” He searches for the right word before a smile ghosts across his face. “Impulsive.”
I laugh. “I got that impression.”
“He acts first and asks questions later.”
“So you’ve spent your life getting him out of trouble?”
A small smile touches his mouth. “Usually. Though he’d argue he just makes life more interesting.”
I can actually imagine that.
“And Remo?”
The amusement fades into something quieter.
“Remo sees the world differently.”
“How so?”
“Problems that take the rest of us hours to solve, he’ll work out in minutes. He notices patterns most people never see.”
“He sounds a lot like Luca,” I murmur, more to myself than to Maximo.
His attention shifts back to me.
“Luca?”
“Isabella’s former fiancé.” A smile tugs at my lips as memories surface.
“He worked in the hacker division back in Sicily. Give him a puzzle or a code, and he’d disappear into it for hours.
Then he’d suddenly emerge with the answer while the rest of them were still trying to work out what the question was.
He seemed to recognize patterns where everyone else just saw… noise.”
Maximo considers that before nodding.
“Remo is much the same.”
I smile into my blanket.
“I like the way you talk about them.” I search for the right words. “When you describe your brothers, you don’t sound like Chicago’s most feared Mafia Don.”
A flicker of amusement passes through his eyes.
“No?”
I shake my head.
“You sound…” I pause, smiling to myself as the answer comes. “Like an older brother who’s proud of the men they’ve become.”
I watch him as he considers my statement.
“I am.”
Those two words carry far more weight than a longer explanation ever could.
I hold his gaze. I like this version of Maximo Marco.
Silence stretches comfortably between us while the storm continues to rage somewhere beyond the walls of the penthouse. The occasional gust still rattles against the windows and makes the tower sway ever so slightly, but it no longer sends my pulse racing.
At some point, the fear slipped away. In its place is something I hadn’t expected to find tonight.
Contentment.
If someone had told me this morning that I’d end the day happily tucked against Maximo in front of a fireplace, I’d have suggested they seek professional help.
Maximo glances toward the windows before looking back at me.
“It’s getting late. You need some rest.”
He isn’t wrong.
“We might as well stay here,” he says, gesturing toward our nest of blankets. “The fire is warmer than any guest room.”
“Yes.” I’m quick to agree. The thought of spending the rest of the night in a strange bed alone during this storm makes me forget how relaxed I’ve been.
Maximo shifts onto his back, looking over at me. Without a word, he lifts the blanket, keeping it open for me.
Before I can overthink it, I move to him and settle against his side, resting my head on his chest as though I’ve done it a hundred times before.
His arm settles around me, and after adjusting the blanket over us, his hand begins moving in slow, unhurried strokes along my back.
The gentle rhythm is impossibly soothing.
My eyelids grow heavy as the adrenaline that carried me through the evening finally ebbs. Maximo’s heartbeat is slow and steady beneath my cheek, each stroke of his hand drawing me closer to sleep.
I let out a contented sigh and burrow just a fraction closer.
Feeling safe in Maximo’s arms, I let my eyes drift closed.