Chapter 4 - The Fortress on Lake Shore Drive
The iron gates of the Lincoln Park estate parted automatically as the Maybach approached, swinging open between ten-foot stone pillars topped with carved stone falcons.
The house itself was less of a home and more of a limestone fortress disguised as an eighteenth-century French chateau. Surrounded by towering, moss-draped oaks and a thick, high brick wall that shut out the rest of the world, it sat directly on the shoreline of Lake Michigan, the dark, churning water crashing against a private seawall just beyond the back terrace.
As the car glided up the circular gravel driveway, the front doors opened before we even came to a complete halt. An elderly woman in a stiff black dress with severe silver hair swept back into a bun—whom I instantly recognized as Aunt Martha—stood waiting on the portico, her hands folded primly over her stomach.
Giovanni stepped out first, offering his hand to help me down from the heavy vehicle.
"Welcome home, my dear," Aunt Martha said, her tone dripping with the kind of aristocratic frost that could preserve meat for a decade. Her sharp eyes scanned my department-store dress, my cheap coat, and my sensible flats with undisguised clinical disapproval.
"Thank you, Mrs. Fierro," I managed, keeping my chin up, remembering that I was supposedly the wife of the most dangerous man in Illinois.
"Aunt Martha," Giovanni corrected smoothly, placing a heavy, warm hand on the small of my back. "And please, call her Jessica, Martha. She's not a guest; she's my wife."
Aunt Martha’s thin lips tightened into a hard white line. "Of course. Your... sudden wife. How fortunate that you managed to find such a discreet woman in Lake Tahoe without a single member of our social circle receiving an invitation."
"We value our privacy," Giovanni said effortlessly, guiding me past her into the grand foyer.
The interior of the chateau was breathtaking—and terrifying. Soaring ceilings of carved white plaster, massive crystal chandeliers, polished marble floors that reflected the warm glow of wall sconces, and original oil paintings of stern-looking men in nineteenth-century suits lining the sweeping double staircase.
"Your rooms are prepared in the east wing," Aunt Martha instructed, turning sharply on her heel. "Dinner was served two hours ago, but I can have the kitchen staff reheat a light broth if Mrs. Fierro is hungry after her little wedding adventure."
"We're fine, Martha. Get some rest," Giovanni dismissed her with a wave of his hand, not unkindly, but with the absolute authority of a man accustomed to being obeyed instantly.
The housekeeper pressed her lips together, cast one final, deeply suspicious glare in my direction, and disappeared down a side corridor.
When the heavy oak doors of the foyer closed behind her, letting us sink into a profound, echoing silence, I let out a long, shaky breath and leaned my back against the marble wall.
"Your family is lovely," I muttered sarcastically. "Does your aunt keep a guillotine in the basement, or does she just use her stare to turn people to stone?"
Giovanni chuckled, stepping close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from his chest. He reached up, gently unbuttoning my cheap wool coat and slipping it off my shoulders before I could protest.
"Martha is old school," Giovanni said softly, hanging my coat on a heavy wrought-iron stand. "She thinks anyone who doesn't trace their lineage back to the robber barons of nineteen-twenty is a tactical liability. Don't take it personally. She looks at everyone that way."
"She looked at me like I was a cockroach trying to infiltrate a royal palace."
"Then she underestimates you," Giovanni replied, his eyes darkening as he looked down at me. "Which is a mistake most people only make once."
He gestured down a wide, dimly lit corridor paved with rich Persian rugs. "Come. I'll show you to your suite. You must be exhausted."
"Your suite?" I stopped walking. "Wait. We aren't sharing a room?"
Giovanni paused, turning back with a slow, wicked smile touching the corner of his mouth. "Would you prefer that we did, Mrs. Fierro? Because I'm sure Martha would love nothing more than to walk in on us and confirm the legitimacy of our union."
May you like
Heat rushed violently into my cheeks. I crossed my arms defensively. "Goodnight, Giovanni."
"Sleep well, Jessica," he murmured, his voice following me down the hall as a maid in a black-and-white uniform materialized from the shadows to escort me to the east wing.
