The Duca estate did not look like the home of Chicago’s most feared man.
Maeve expected cold marble, armed guards, and furniture no one was allowed to sit on.
There were guards.
There was marble.
But there were also family photographs.
A worn leather chair beside the fireplace.
Cookbooks stacked in the kitchen.
And a seventy-four-year-old Italian woman named Lucia Duca who met Maeve in the foyer, looked her up and down, and announced, “Finally. A woman in this house who looks like she eats dinner.”
Maeve blinked.
Mateo closed his eyes.
“Mother.”
“What?”
Lucia kissed Maeve on both cheeks.
“You are beautiful.”
“Thank you.”
“My son is too thin.”
“I’m standing right here.”
“Then hear me.”
Maeve laughed.
Mateo looked betrayed.
“You’ve known her thirty seconds.”
“I like her.”
“Of course you do.”
The restoration project was enormous.
Several rooms contained textiles collected by the Duca family over generations.
Maeve brought two employees and established a temporary conservation workspace.
For the first time since the wedding disaster, she felt useful rather than wounded.
Mateo mostly stayed away.
When he did appear, he asked questions without hovering.
One evening Maeve found him sitting alone in the library holding the handkerchief she had restored two years earlier.
“You kept it.”
He looked up.
“You sound surprised.”
“People bring me heirlooms all the time. Sometimes I wonder where they end up.”
He moved aside.
Maeve sat.
For several minutes they said nothing.
Then Mateo asked, “How long were you with Brandon?”
“Five years.”
“You loved him?”
“I thought I did.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
Maeve considered it.
“Yes.”
Mateo nodded.
“You don’t have to be ashamed of loving someone who didn’t deserve it.”
Maeve looked at him.
“That sounds suspiciously healthy.”
“I have an expensive therapist.”
She laughed.
“Seriously?”
“Yes.”
“You?”
“Why is everyone surprised?”
“Because half of Chicago thinks you solve emotional problems by making people disappear.”
Mateo raised an eyebrow.
“Only before therapy.”
Maeve laughed so hard she had to cover her mouth.
Mateo watched her.
Something shifted.
Maeve felt it.
So did he.
Neither moved closer.
That mattered.
Brandon had always treated affection as something he was entitled to.
Mateo waited.
A week became three.
Three became six.
Maeve discovered Mateo drank terrible instant coffee when working late.
He discovered she sang quietly when concentrating.
Lucia invited Maeve to Sunday dinner.
Maeve declined twice.
The third time Lucia simply told the cook to set another place.
One Sunday, Maeve arrived to find a photograph of a younger Mateo and Alessandro.
They looked almost identical.
Mateo noticed her looking.
“He was better with people.”
“You miss him.”
“Every day.”
“What happened?”
This time Mateo answered.
“Someone inside our organization gave information to a rival group. Alessandro walked into an ambush.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I spent years believing revenge would make the loss smaller.”
“Did it?”
“No.”
Maeve touched his hand.
Mateo looked down at their fingers.
Then at her.
He turned his palm upward.
Maeve let him hold her hand.
Nothing more happened.
It was somehow more intimate than a kiss.
Meanwhile, Elena’s case against Brandon strengthened.
Federal investigators became involved after evidence showed interstate transfers and financial fraud.
Gemma provided testimony.
Then, one Tuesday afternoon, Maeve received an envelope.
No return address.
Inside was a photograph of her leaving the Duca estate.
Across the bottom someone had written:
HE CAN’T WATCH YOU FOREVER.
Maeve immediately called Mateo.
He arrived at her studio twelve minutes later.
His calm frightened her more than anger would have.
“Where was this?”
“Mail slot.”
“Anyone see who delivered it?”
“No.”
Mateo called his security team.
Maeve folded her arms.
“I’m not moving into your house.”
“I didn’t ask.”
“You’re about to.”
“I was going to suggest it.”
“No.”
“Maeve.”
“No.”
He looked frustrated.
“I can protect you there.”
“I spent five years letting Brandon make decisions because he said he knew better. I’m not doing that again.”
Mateo’s expression softened.
“You’re right.”
She hadn’t expected that.
“However,” he continued, “you also have six employees who could be put at risk if Brandon comes here.”
Maeve hated that he was right.
She compromised.
Security at the studio.
A driver at night.
Cameras.
No moving into the estate.
Two nights later, the studio alarm went off at 2:13 a.m.
Maeve woke to Mateo calling.
“Stay inside.”
“What happened?”
“Someone broke into the studio.”
She was dressed before he finished speaking.
“Maeve—”
“That is my business.”
“Stay—”
She hung up.
Twenty minutes later, she arrived to find police, Mateo, and broken glass.
Nothing valuable appeared stolen.
But someone had slashed the wedding gown Maeve had stored in the back room.
Her gown.
The ivory silk lay shredded across the floor.
For a moment she couldn’t move.
Mateo came beside her.
“Don’t touch anything.”
Maeve stared at the ruined dress.
Five hundred hours.
Maybe more.
She had stitched hope into every seam.
And Brandon had destroyed it.
“He did this.”
“We don’t know yet.”
“I do.”
She crouched near the fabric.
Mateo expected tears.
Instead Maeve began laughing.
He looked concerned.
“Are you okay?”
“No.”
She picked up one severed piece of lace.
“But he still doesn’t understand.”
“What?”
Maeve stood.
“I restore things.”
The next morning, surveillance footage confirmed Brandon had entered through a rear window wearing a hood.
Police issued an arrest warrant.
But Brandon vanished again.
Weeks passed.
Maeve rebuilt the gown.
Not into a wedding dress.
Into something new.
She removed the damaged skirt and transformed the remaining fabric into a shorter formal gown, incorporating visible seams where the cuts had been.
Lucia saw it and touched one of the repaired lines.
“You didn’t hide the damage.”
“No.”
“Why?”
Maeve smiled.
“Because it happened.”
Lucia nodded approvingly.
“Good.”
That evening, the Duca foundation held a benefit at the Art Institute.
Maeve wore the reconstructed dress.
When she descended the estate staircase, Mateo was waiting.
He forgot to speak.
Maeve stopped.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re staring.”
“I know.”
She smiled.
“Is that your professional assessment?”
“No.”
His voice lowered.
“That is a man looking at a woman he finds extraordinarily beautiful.”
Maeve’s breath caught.
Brandon had complimented her conditionally.
That dress makes you look thinner.
That angle is flattering.
Mateo looked at her as though there were no qualification attached.
At the benefit, cameras followed them.
Mateo never touched Maeve without invitation.
When he offered his arm, he waited.
She took it.
Later, on a balcony overlooking Michigan Avenue, Maeve said, “People are going to assume we’re together.”
“Does that bother you?”
“I don’t know.”
“It bothers me.”
She looked surprised.
“Why?”
“Because I’d prefer not to be something people assume.”
Mateo stepped closer.
“I’d prefer to be something you choose.”
Maeve’s heart stumbled.
“You’re dangerous when you say things like that.”
“I’ve been told.”
She smiled.
Then she kissed him.
Briefly.
Softly.
When she pulled away, Mateo did not chase her.
His forehead rested against hers.
“Maeve.”
“Yeah?”
“I’ve wanted to do that since the alley.”
She laughed.
“You met me soaking wet holding another woman’s ultrasound.”
“I have unusual taste.”
She kissed him again.
For the first time in years, Maeve felt desired without feeling evaluated.
Then Mateo’s phone vibrated.
He checked it.
His expression changed.
“What?”
He showed her.
A photograph had arrived from an unknown number.
Gemma stood outside an apartment building in Milwaukee.
Someone had photographed her from across the street.
Below it was a message.
Tell Maeve to drop the case. Or the next picture won’t be from this far away.
Maeve’s happiness disappeared.
Brandon wasn’t running anymore.
He was hunting.
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