Page 79 of Mine Again (Mafia Bride #2)

Chapter Seventy-Eight

Luca

I land my jet on Maximo Marcos’s private strip outside Chicago. The runway lights cut a narrow path through the darkness, flaring against the black sheen of asphalt. I keep my head angled low as the wheels shriek and the cabin tilts forward.

I don’t have the luxury of anonymity anymore. Interpol has circulated a mock-up of my face, and every minute in public increases my odds of being recognized. Chicago is risk layered on risk, but Isa’s tracker stopped here. I had no choice.

It’s bold of Hale to bring her to his main residence, though it is the most fortified of his properties. Fort Knox has nothing on it.

I knew about the estate long before tonight. When I discovered Hale was the Jackal, I traced everything tied to his name.

The house was impossible to miss. It sits on the outskirts of Chicago, a sprawl of wealth and stone, large and ostentatious. It isn’t a home; it’s a monument to his ego, a warning to anyone who might think to challenge him.

The place has been featured in every architectural and high-end magazine worth mentioning, always with Hale center stage, smiling that sickly charming smile .

He loves to pose on the marble steps with his arms spread wide, the picture of a benevolent tycoon showing the world his kingdom. The interviews are nauseating. He talks about legacy, about vision, about building a home that embodies power and possibility.

The reality is simpler. It’s a shrine to himself.

The coverage lists every detail. Imported limestone, gilded balconies, a glass dome crowning the central hall.

Gold-leaf ceilings patterned after Versailles.

Hand-carved doors brought in from Morocco.

Artisans flown in from half a dozen countries so he could brag about them later.

Even the gardens are designed to impress, modeled after Schonbrunn Palace in Vienna.

And Hale makes sure it’s all photographed. Helicopter shots of the sprawling acres, drone sweeps of fountains and reflecting pools, the private helipad glinting in the sun. Footage he no doubt approved himself, edited to make him look untouchable.

Arrogance layered on arrogance.

But Isa isn’t in a magazine spread. She’s locked inside that palace of smoke and mirrors.

With my jet steady on autopilot over the Atlantic, I dug deeper. Past the glamor and curated shots.

What I found was what Hale doesn’t want people to see.

The grounds are walled in with stone and steel, the gates thick enough to stop an armored vehicle. Cams cover every angle. Motion sensors are tucked into landscaping lights. Drones sweep the perimeter on automated loops.

The fountains and statues aren’t just decorative; they’re cover for guards. Men in tailored suits carrying military-grade weapons, stationed at intervals like clockwork.

The house itself is just as secure. Reinforced walls. Laminated glass. Bio-locks on every entry. The ceilings may shine with gold, but behind it all is steel.

Nobody gets near that place without Hale knowing. Nobody enters unless he allows it.

He believes he’s invincible behind those doors. And until now, he has been.

But every fortress has a crack. I’ll find it and take Isa back. Even if I need an army to break the walls down.

I’m not flying blind into Chicago. This airstrip is deliberate. I need men, firepower, reach. Things I cannot pull together on my own on short notice.

This is where Maximo Marcos comes in. I don’t like it, but I need him.

He’s taken over as Don of the Chicago mob, but he’s not just a big name in this city. He’s a blood relative of the Sicilian De Marcos, the family I swore allegiance to when I was eighteen. The same family my father betrayed, forcing us into hiding.

They know about my arrival. I had messaged ahead, requesting a meeting with Don Marcos.Whether he’ll grant it is another question.

Two SUVs wait on the tarmac, black silhouettes against the floodlights. Four guards step out, hands on their weapons but not drawn as I open the hatch. Their eyes scan for visible weapons before patting me down and checking my bag once I’m within reach.

Pointing to the open car door, one says curtly, “We’re taking you to Consigliere Marino.”

“I need to see Don Marcos, not his adviser.”

The guard’s gaze flickers, a quick exchange of looks passing between the men before one replies, “Boss’s orders. Consigliere Marino will decide how to handle you.”

Aldo Marino, trusted advisor, soother of tempers, the man who makes Maximo’s chaos run like order.

If I’m seeing him first, it means Maximo doesn’t want to deal with me until he’s been briefed. Or he doesn’t trust himself not to explode for my daring to approach him like this.

I slide into the SUV without a word, reassessing my plan quickly. Aldo may actually be the better path. Isa’s mother is involved with him, and she’s still here visiting from Sicily.

That likely means I’ll see her. The thought twists like a knife.

I dread having to tell Caterina Accardi that her daughter has been taken. But if her presence sways Aldo, if he feels the weight of her panic, then it will work in my favor.

Helping me becomes helping her. And if he’s smitten enough to want to keep Caterina happy, all the better.

My reflection glints back at me from the tinted glass, a ghost of the man Interpol is hunting. One wrong glance, one camera feed, and Interpol could be on me before I reach Aldo’s gates.

Every second in this city or any place other than my island is borrowed time. If I’m exposed, I won’t just lose Isa. I’ll lose the chance to ever get near her again.

My pulse hammers, but I force it into rhythm.

Strategy requires focus, and Isa is my focus.

The ride is silent, just the thrum of tires on asphalt. Chicago glows faintly in the distance, all sharp angles and cold fire.

I close my eyes briefly. I’m so fucking tired, but I can’t sleep. Not when Isa is with Hale.

I picture my butterfly inside his estate, caged. It’s been four hours since her red dot stopped moving.

Four hours too long.

I force my eyelids open when we roll through the gates of a stone estate, lights sweeping across manicured hedges and ironwork. The guards at the entrance straighten as we pass, eyes tracking the SUV.

The vehicle crunches to a stop on the gravel drive. One of the guards steps out, pulls open my door, and motions me forward. I let him fall in beside me as we climb the stairs.

My eyes take in everything. It’s become a habit, ensuring my survival. Cameras tucked in the eaves. Men at the corners, rifles in hand. The security is tight, but not suffocating. Classic old school. Efficient, not flashy.

I’m led through a quiet hall lined with oil paintings and into a study paneled in mahogany. Aldo sits behind his desk, silver-gray hair neat, his dark suit immaculate. His eyes are sharp, calculating, the way only a consigliere’s can be.

“Luca Caruso,” he says, his tone even. “This is unexpected. ”

His tone gives no hint whether I’ll be shown to a guest room or a dungeon.

Then movement in the corner makes me turn, and I watch as Isa’s mother rises from an armchair.

My chest tightens.

She’s moving toward me, her hand covering her mouth, eyes shining. For a moment, she looks young again, so much like Isa it nearly knocks the air from my lungs.

It’s the same warm smile she used to greet me with when Isa and I were teenagers slipping through her halls, stealing time that wasn’t ours. That softness digs into me like a blade.

“Luca,” she breathes. “ Madonna mia , it’s really you.”

Her voice trembles. She steps closer, reaching as if to touch my face but stopping short, like I might disappear if she does.

For a moment, the rage burning in me since Tangier flickers. The heat falls away, replaced by something heavier. Guilt.

“When I heard… about the marriage… I was glad. Glad, even if you kept it a secret. Though it hurt that Isa had to sneak out of the house and the country like that. Why didn’t either of you tell me you were coming back?”

She looks past me, as if Isa is just out of sight. Hope lights her features for an instant before it crumbles.

“Where is Isa? And what’s with that hacker name being splashed all over the news? I recognized you straight away from the published footage. Please tell me that cyberattack wasn’t you.”

“It wasn’t me,” I reassure her. “Carter Hale is behind it.”

“The billionaire?” she asks, confused.

I nod and look her dead in the eye. “And he’s kidnapped Isa.”

Her gasp tears the air. Her hands twist together, trembling. Guilt digs in deep. Isa is in Hale’s hands because of me.

“No… Dio mio , no. What does he want with her? And if he’s behind that dreadful attack, why is he blaming you?”

Her worried eyes turn to Aldo, who rises from his seat, stepping up beside her and winding his arm around her shoulders .

“Let’s sit down. You’ll start from the beginning,” he says. There’s no give in his tone.

I tell him what he needs to know, no more. How Hale has been circling me for years under the name The Jackal. How he’s used Isa as bait to force my hand. And how Delaware wasn’t my breach but his.

Every word is clipped, stripped of anything extra. They don’t need to know the depth of what Isa and I have been through. Only that Hale is behind it and that he has her now.

“I can’t get Isa back on my own. I need manpower,” I finish, staring at him. “Digging into Hale’s network, anticipating his moves, that’s the easy part. But I can’t take his fortress down on my own. I want to make a deal with Don Marcos.”

Aldo doesn’t move. His gaze pins me, weighing every syllable.

“Your presence here is dangerous,” he says finally.

“You walked into Chicago with Interpol at your back. If it becomes known you’re here, it isn’t only you who burns.

It will bring the weight of Homeland Security and every agency in this country crashing down on us. That’s what you’re asking me to risk.”

Catarina wrings her hands harder, turning to her suitor with wide, desperate eyes.

“Aldo, this is my daughter we’re talking about. Call Maximo. Isa is out there with a maniac. God knows what he’ll do to her. Every moment we waste, she’s in more danger.”

Her voice cracks, the words tumbling over each other. “I’ve seemingly already lost Mari. I will not lose another one of my children, Aldo. Not while there’s breath in me to fight for her.”

Aldo exhales slowly, then sits back behind the desk, folding his arms, ignoring Caterina’s pleas.

“Can you prove Delaware wasn’t you? Because if you cannot, you’re asking me to tie Maximo’s future to a dead man walking.”

I meet his gaze without hesitation.

“Yes, I can,” I reply. “When Isa is safe. But right now, she’s my priority.”

Aldo studies me, the silence stretching long .

“What are you offering in return?” he asks, ever the calculating consigliere.

“I’ll barter something Maximo will consider priceless.”

His brows lift faintly, but he doesn’t press. Not yet.

We stare at each other, him probing, measuring, and me daring him to find a crack I don’t have.

Isa’s mother breaks the silence.

“Aldo, please,” Catarina begs again, her voice raw but steady. “I need my daughter back. Call Maximo.” She holds his gaze, regal even in her distress, and adds the words I was counting on. “For me.”

Aldo looks at her, then back at me. His hesitation is deliberate, his mind calculating cost against risk. Her words crack his armor for a breath, before the mask slides back into place.

“Maximo has recently taken over as Don and is fighting turf wars that are long overdue. He will likely refuse.”

“I can help him outsmart his opposition,” I say flatly. “I’m the best at what I do.” It isn’t a boast, only fact. “With me on his side, Maximo can win any battle.” I believe every word leaving my mouth.

I usually keep out of gang wars because they’re messy, public, and driven by ego. They lack precision, and precision is where I excel. But for Isa, I will do anything.

The words hang heavy in the room.

Aldo’s eyes narrow. He studies me one last time before picking up the phone.

I step back toward the window, hands loose at my sides, and stare out into the night as he makes the call.

If Maximo refuses, so be it. I’ll tear Hale’s empire apart brick by brick, even if I have to burn this city down to get to Isa.