Page 88 of Claimed At First Sight

Mia: Better.

Rory: Anyway, if you’re not busy tomorrow, I could show you the actual Chicago instead of just mafia mansions.

The offer sends an unexpected flicker of excitement through me.

Mia: Tempting.

Rory: We could grab coffee. I’ll take you to my favorite bookstore. Maybe the lake if you survive the cold.

My thumbs hover over the screen. A day in Chicago with someone my own age. The idea is thrilling.

Could I go into the city tomorrow? Would I need to ask Aldo now that we’re staying here?

No, I’m nineteen years old. I don’t need permission to leave the house. Especially not in a city where nobody knows who I am.

Mia: I also want to see your photography.

Rory: Sure. Fair warning, I’m quite passionate about it.

Mia: Even better. I want to see what would scandalize rich old men.

Rory: Perfect. I’ll text you in the morning.

Mia: Looking forward to it.

Rory: Also, wear actual winter clothes this time. Chicago is trying to kill you.

Mia: Dramatic.

Rory: Says the Sicilian girl who nearly froze to death in a party dress tonight.

Mia: Fair point. Goodnight, Rory.

Rory: Night, rebel girl.

A smile lingers on my face long after the conversation ends. Rory is my very first friend in Chicago. Anywhere, actually.

Perhaps Chicago isn’t so bad.

The café Rory texted me the address for is tucked between a tiny bookstore and a record shop on a snowy Chicago side street.

Amber lights glow through fogged windows while handwritten chalkboards advertise pastries and coffee with names like “Existential Crisis Mocha” and “Lavender Honey Matcha Dreams”.

Inside, the air smells like espresso, cinnamon, and old books. I instantly love it.

I’ve never been anywhere like this. Hardly surprising when Father rarely allowed us outside the house.

Exposed brick walls are covered in framed photographs and mismatched shelves overflowing with novels, while soft music hums beneath the low murmur of conversations around me.

Half the people here look like they either write poetry or own at least one vintage camera. Rory fits in perfectly.

I spot her near the back window, one boot hooked over the rung of her chair while she scrolls through something on her phone.

She looks up as I approach, then her eyes flick past me. A grin spreads across her face.

“I see you brought an entourage.”

I glance over my shoulder toward the two men who entered with me and are now seated at a nearby table pretending to read the menu. In their dark suits, they stick out like sore thumbs.