Page 208 of Mine Again
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, hehas 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 beentaken. 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.
