Page 59 of Claimed At First Sight
Mamma laughs beside him, and Aldo’s whole face lights up at the sound.
Oh no, that look is deeply concerning.
Staff wait along the front steps when we get out of the car, standing with the kind of quiet professionalism that makes me feel more important than I am.
My first thought is that this looks suspiciously like the sort of welcome reserved for a new lady of the house.
Surely not. Maybe this is how guests are greeted here. Let’s hope.
Warmth wraps around me the moment the doors close behind us. The interior somehow matches the outside perfectly. Elegant without feeling untouchable.
“This,” I announce while unbuttoning my coat, “is significantly more welcoming than the frozen death landscape outside.”
Aldo laughs. “You’ll adjust.”
“Unlikely.”
Ari wanders slowly in a circle, staring up at the towering ceilings and enormous chandelier overhead like she’s stepped into a palace from one of her fantasy novels.
Meanwhile, Aldo’s attention never strays far from Mamma. He watches her as she takes everything in, and whenever she smiles, satisfaction slips into his features like her approval genuinely matters to him.
“Simon will show you girls to your rooms,” Aldo says, gesturing toward a man dressed impeccably in a dark suit.
A male house manager. Aldo might not be as traditional as I thought.
Simon inclines his head. “If you’ll follow me.”
Meanwhile, Aldo places a hand against Mamma’s back and guides her toward a different hallway.
My brows rise so fast they nearly disappear into my hairline.
A different hallway? Excuse me?
Sienna catches my expression and bites the inside of her cheek to stop herself from laughing.
Surely they’re not sharing a room already. That seems wildly premature.
Mamma believes in decorum. She raised us on it.
Then again, this is the woman allowing Aldo to hold her hand every five minutes like they’re starring in some late-life romance novel.
I’m okay with it as long as she doesn’t want to stay here.
Simon leads us upstairs. It’s just as warm as the foyer, the long hallways softened by runners, antique lamps, and framed family photographs instead of severe artwork or intimidating portraits.
Simon opens the first bedroom door.
“This is your room, Miss Mialina.”
I step inside and immediately stop short. A massive flower arrangement sits in the center of the room, overflowing with deep red roses and winter greenery.
Oh no.
I know those flowers. Or rather, the style. Elegant, excessive, and slightly intimidating.
The exact same kind Maximo keeps sending me.
Perhaps Chicago only has one florist specializing in emotionally aggressive bouquets. Because I’ve since found out that he flies the flowers in from Chicago to Sicily.
