She Found Her Maid of Honor’s Ultrasound in Her Fiancé’s Tuxedo—Then Chicago’s Most Feared Mafia Boss Walked Into Her Wedding and Claimed Her Before Everyone

Three weeks after the wedding that shattered Chicago’s elite, Maeve sat in her restoration studio on Fulton Market.

The studio was peaceful. Sunlight poured through the tall arched factory windows, illuminating rows of antique wooden looms, shelves of hand-dyed silk threads, and a massive sixteenth-century Flemish tapestry currently stretched across a wooden restoration frame.

The air smelled of cedar, beeswax, and lavender—the scents of her childhood.

The door chime rang softly.

Maeve turned around, wiping her hands on her linen apron.

Two men in dark suits stepped inside, followed by Mateo Duca.

He looked striking as always, wearing a dark navy suit with a silver tie. He held a leather portfolio under his arm, his eyes immediately sweeping the room, taking in every detail of her workshop.

"You didn't answer my call," Mateo said, gesturing for his security detail to step outside and guard the door.

"I was re-warping the loom," Maeve said, pointing her needle toward the tapestry. "When I'm in the middle of a silk tension pass, I don't answer phones. Not even yours, Mr. Duca."

A tiny, approving smirk touched Mateo’s lips. "You're getting comfortable, wife."

"I am in my home, husband," Maeve replied smoothly, setting her needle down. "What are you doing here? I thought you had a board meeting with the lakefront development council."

"I did," Mateo said, walking over to the restoration frame. He stopped beside her, his large frame filling her space, his warm scent immediately washing over her senses. "I settled the council's objections. Then I bought the remaining commercial deeds on this block. Your studio now sits in the middle of a protected historic district. No one can ever attempt a predatory buyout of this land again."

Maeve stared at him, her breath hitching. "You bought the entire block?"

"It was an efficient solution," Mateo said casually, as if buying twenty million dollars worth of prime Chicago real estate were as simple as buying a cup of coffee. He opened his leather portfolio and laid three blue folders on her work table. "Also, the federal prosecutors concluded their initial review of Brandon Hayes' accounts this morning."

Maeve’s tone hardened. "Where is he?"

"He was picked up by federal marshals two days ago at a small hotel near Miami," Mateo said coldly. "He tried to board a private charter to the Bahamas using a forged passport. He’s currently in federal custody at the Metropolitan Correctional Center in downtown Chicago. Bail was denied."

A deep, heavy weight that Maeve hadn't even realized she was carrying finally lifted off her chest. She sank into her wooden work stool, letting out a long, quiet breath.

"He lost everything," she whispered.

"He lost everything the moment he decided to touch what belonged to me," Mateo corrected softly, stepping right up to her stool. He reached out, his bare fingers gently lifting her chin so she had to look up into his face. "Are you satisfied, Maeve?"

Maeve looked into his intense gray eyes. For three weeks, she had lived in his glass penthouse. She had expected a gilded cage, a controlling mobster who ordered her around. Instead, she had found a man who listened when she spoke, who ensured her studio had every resource it needed, and who looked at her every evening across the dinner table with an intense, unyielding admiration that made her skin burn.

"I am getting there," Maeve admitted softly, her pulse fluttering beneath his thumb resting against her jawline.

Mateo leaned down, his dark hair brushing her forehead, his lips stopping just a fraction of an inch from hers. "Tonight is the Italian-American Heritage Gala at the Drake," he murmured against her skin. "Every family from the North Side will be there. They want to see if the new Mrs. Duca is a quiet bird or a lioness."