63. Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Sixty-Three
Maximo
The bass thrums through the floor beneath my feet as I enter our club. It stretches across three levels of one of our downtown buildings, all dark marble, smoked glass, and understated luxury.
Saturday nights are always busy. Exactly as they should be.
The crowd filling the dance floor sees one of Chicago’s most exclusive nightclubs. I see a profitable business in a prime location, owned by my family like so much else in this city.
Gabe and Rafa are already waiting near the entrance.
“About time,” Rafa says, pushing away from the wall.
“You’ve been here four minutes,” Gabe replies, pocketing his phone.
“I stand by my statement.”
I ignore them both as we step inside the roped-off VIP section. Every table here is occupied. The bar staff move with practiced efficiency, glasses never sitting empty for long. Good.
A movement behind the bar catches my eye. One of the bartenders pours eighteen-year-old Scotch straight into a tumbler, never bothering with the measure sitting inches from his hand. By the look of it, he’s just given away a quarter of the bottle’s profit margin.
“He’s overpouring.”
Rafa tracks my line of sight and gives a slight nod. “I’ll take care of it.”
I have capable people running every one of our businesses, but I still make these rounds myself. While I trust them to do their jobs, I still check.
For the first time in years, though, my thoughts drift somewhere they have no business being.
I see the anger in her brown eyes as clearly as if she’s standing beside me. She looked at me as though I’d betrayed her.
But Caterina deserved to tell her daughter that she was engaged. It was never my place to take that moment from her, nor to correct every assumption Mia chose to make. I’d warned her often enough that she wasn’t returning to Sicily. She’d simply refused to believe me.
A waiter brushes past carrying a tray of champagne flutes. One glass wobbles dangerously before he steadies it at the last second. He needs more practice before working a Saturday night shift.
We continue toward the rear of the club. Leaving the music behind, we step through a staff-only door.
Polished marble gives way to bare concrete, and the scent of expensive perfume is replaced by diesel, timber, and the cold air drifting in through the loading dock.
A semitrailer sits backed against the warehouse entrance, where several men are already unloading wooden crates stamped with the labels of a respected Italian winery.
Perfectly legitimate. At least on paper.
Gabe hands me the manifest, but after a brief glance I return it to him.
“Let’s have a look.”
The foreman hurries over the moment he spots us. “Mr. Marco.”
I acknowledge him with a nod before my gaze shifts back to our delivery.
“Did everything arrive on schedule?”
“Yes, sir. This is the first shipment from the new Sicilian supplier.”
It’s exactly why I’m here.
A supplier’s first delivery sets the tone. If they understand from the outset that nothing enters Chicago without my approval, they’ll be less inclined to cut corners later.
“The wine can go straight to storage,” I say as I continue toward the rear. “Open up the rest.”
“Of course.”
He reaches beneath the reinforced frame and releases a hidden latch. A section of the interior wall eases forward almost soundlessly, revealing a row of identical matte black cases secured behind the false partition.
I step closer, studying the arrangement for a moment before nodding toward the nearest case. A dockworker crouches beside it and reaches for the locks.
Before the first clasp clicks open, the vibration of my phone breaks the quiet hum of the loading dock.
I slip it from my pocket, my brow furrowing when Aldo’s name appears on the screen. Beside me, Gabe notices the caller ID and frowns.
“Aldo? He never calls this late.”
Neither of us needs to say the rest aloud. Aldo doesn’t interrupt business unless something has gone wrong.
Only one possibility jumps to mind. Gabe catches on too.
“Oh, I wonder what she’s done now. Given it’s Saturday night, she might have sneaked out to explore Chicago’s nightlife.”
Rafa gives a quiet laugh as he folds his arms.
“I can just picture her climbing out a window and somehow slipping past all of Aldo’s security.”
Knowing Mia, neither possibility can be dismissed. She was furious enough to do something impulsive, if only to piss me off.
The phone continues vibrating in my hand. I glance back toward the concealed compartment before handing the inspection over to my brothers.
“Finish checking everything. If there’s a problem, call me.”
“We’ve got it,” Gabe says, amusement still dancing in his face.
I cross the loading dock at a brisk pace, answering as soon as I’m out of earshot.
“Aldo.”
The night air bites at my face as I stop beside one of the concrete pillars. Resting one hand against it, I watch a forklift disappear into the warehouse with another pallet.
“I need you at my house tomorrow morning.”
I frown. “Is Mia all right?”
“Yes. This isn’t about her.”
Some of the tension eases from my shoulders.
“What’s happened?”
“It’s not something I’d discuss over the phone.”
Aldo isn’t a man who wastes words or dramatizes a situation. If he’s refusing to elaborate despite knowing this line is secure, then whatever waits for me tomorrow morning is serious.
“Who’s involved?”
There’s a brief pause. “Isabella’s husband.”
I straighten. “Mialina’s sister? Since when does she have a husband?”
“He’ll explain everything himself.”
So the husband is already here. But why hasn’t Aldo mentioned Isabella?
Mia and I only talked about her oldest sister last night. She never mentioned Isabella was seeing anyone, let alone that she’d married. She did, however, tell me about her former fiancé.
Aldo wouldn’t be talking about the hacker, would he?
He’s managed to leave me with more questions than answers, which he knows I hate.
“I’ll come by after breakfast.”
“See you then.”
The line goes dead.
For a moment I remain where I am, the phone still in my hand. A car door slams somewhere behind me, followed by the rumble of the trailer pulling away.
“Is everything all right?”
I turn to find Gabe and Rafa heading toward me.
“That depends.”
Rafa raises an eyebrow. “On?”
“Who’s waiting for me at Aldo’s tomorrow morning.”