Chapter 3 - The Cold Gold Coast
An hour later, a sleek black Maybach glided through the iron gates of the Bellini estate in Chicago’s prestigious Gold Coast neighborhood. The mansion was a sprawling masterpiece of limestone and slate, rising three stories above Lake Michigan like a modern fortress.
A butler in an immaculate suit opened the car door. "Welcome home, Mr. Bellini. Miss Whitaker."
"This is Mrs. Bellini now, Thomas," Vincent corrected calmly as he stepped out, offering his hand to Mara.
Mara hesitated before placing her small, cold hand in his. His grip was firm and surprisingly warm against her icy skin. He led her through double doors carved from heavy oak into a grand foyer lined with marble columns and sweeping staircases.
"Thomas will show you to the east wing," Vincent said, turning to her in the foyer. "Your rooms have been prepared. A physician is already on her way to examine your cheek and split lip."
"I don't need a doctor," Mara said softly, pulling her torn wrap closer around her shoulders.
"You are my wife now," Vincent replied smoothly, his thumb reaching out to gently brush a stray strand of hair from her cheek. "Which means any mark left on your skin is an insult to me. Let the doctor look at you."
He turned to leave toward his study, but stopped after a few paces. He glanced back over his shoulder.
"Cal has already sent a team to your apartment," Vincent added. "Your father’s personal belongings, your clothes, and your bakery records are being packed and brought here. You won't need to return to that place."
Mara felt a lump form in her throat. "Thank you, Vincent."
He gave her a single, sharp nod before disappearing down the hallway.
The east wing suite was larger than Mara’s entire apartment. It contained a king-sized bed dressed in white Egyptian cotton, a marble fireplace, a walk-in closet stocked with designer clothing in her exact size, and a private balcony overlooking the dark, churning expanse of Lake Michigan.
An hour later, after a quiet female physician had cleaned her wounds, applied a soothing ointment, and prescribed painkillers, Mara sat on the edge of the plush bed, wrapped in a heavy silk robe.
There was a soft knock at the door.
Cal Russo stepped inside, carrying a thick black binder. "Mrs. Bellini. The boss asked me to give you these."
Mara looked at the binder. "What is it?"
"The complete financial audit of Grant Holloway, Evelyn Whitaker, and Lauren Whitaker," Cal said, dropping the binder onto the coffee table with a heavy thud. "You should know what you're dealing with."
Mara reached out and opened the folder. As her eyes scanned the pages, the breath left her lungs.
It was not just gambling debts.
Grant had taken out three separate life insurance policies on Mara’s late father just weeks before his death from an apparent heart attack. And eight months ago, Evelyn had quietly removed Mara’s name from the family’s estate trust, transferring all remaining assets to Grant.
But the final document was the most devastating.
It was a contract dated two weeks prior, signed by Grant Holloway and Evelyn Whitaker.
They had not just planned to force Mara to sign over the bakery tonight. They had already agreed to sell the land to a commercial development firm owned by an associate of the Cicero syndicate—a deal that included a clause guaranteeing Grant a ten percent kickback once Mara was "removed from management."
They hadn't just betrayed her at dinner. They had spent months planning her complete destruction.
Tears finally broke through Mara’s defenses, spilling silently down her bruised cheeks. She clutched the folder to her chest, her body shaking with quiet, agonizing sobs.
A shadow crossed the doorway.
Vincent stood there, his dark coat removed, his crisp white shirt unbuttoned at the collar. He watched her for a moment, his face unreadable, before stepping into the room. He didn't offer empty words of comfort. He simply sat on the edge of the coffee table opposite her, waiting until her breathing slowed.
"Now you know," Vincent said softly.
"They never loved me," Mara whispered, wiping her eyes with the back of her sleeve. "Not even my mother. I was just... an asset to be harvested."
"Family is not about blood, Mara," Vincent said, his voice dropping to a low, resonant hum. "Blood only makes you related. Loyalty makes you family."
May you like
He reached out, his long fingers gently cupping the back of her neck, bringing her eyes up to meet his.
"Tomorrow morning, we announce our marriage to the press," Vincent said, his dark eyes burning with a cold, terrifying promise. "And then, we tear them down."
