CHAPTER 12
MIA
Today feels different .
I feel oddly good, clear even. No voices. No hallucinations messing with my perception, making me question if I'm in the right reality.
I return from the garden, soaking in the pleasant warmth of the sun on my skin, feeling more grounded than usual. Satisfied that I’ve warmed up enough for my session with Zane later. I need to be at my best for it—preferably to provoke the most intense reactions out of him.
He didn’t touch me again after that day. But that’s alright. I’ll just keep pushing him until he finally snaps.
But before that, something catches my attention in the hallway: an irresistible smell. A familiar, delicious aroma—my favorite dish.
I follow the scent, like a hound on a hunt, to the dining room. There, I find Olga placing a plate in front of one of the chairs: Crockpot Chicken Enchilada Soup. God, I love that one. She notices me but doesn't seem surprised, just gives me that look she always wears—a mix of exhaustion and already being over me before the conversation has even begun.
"Aha!" I point at the plate, grinning. "You did that on purpose!"
Olga crosses her arms, the picture of indifference. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"You ordered my favorite dish." I sit at the table, eyes locked on the food like it’s a divine offering. "That means you like me."
She lets out a long sigh, as if bracing herself for something. "It means you eat poorly when no one forces you to, and someone has to keep you from dying of malnutrition."
"Or... it means you care about me." I spoon some soup into my mouth, eyes closing in bliss. "Mmm, this is really good, Olga. Did you make it?"
She frowns, a little offended. "I don’t cook."
"So, you had it specially made for me?"
"It’s my job to make sure the house runs."
"So... you wanted me to eat something good because you like me."
Olga stares at me for a long moment, then looks toward the door, probably wondering how fast she could walk out of the room.
"Interpret as you wish."
"That was a 'yes.'"
"That was 'eat before I change my mind.'"
I smile, satisfied, and continue eating. "Thank you, Olga. You’re so cute, you know that?"
She rolls her eyes. "If you say that again, I’ll make you eat broccoli for dinner."
I grimace. She turns to leave, but I swear I catch the hint of a giggle as she goes. I can’t help but smile at that.
I push the chair next to mine back and pat the seat twice, glancing at the security guard standing by the door, arms crossed, the usual silent sentinel.
"Sit down."
He blinks, caught off guard.
"Madam, I..."
"Mia. No 'ma'am'." I rest my elbow on the table, leaning in with a teasing grin. "You’re always so serious and quiet. Sit down. Keep me company."
He looks around, looking for some escape, but I just smile and wait. With a resigned sigh, he finally sits, clearly uncomfortable.
"So what's life like as an undercover security guard? Do you have secret meetings? Do you have codes like 'The Crow Has Landed' when I do something wrong?"
"Uh... not exactly."
"And what's your name? Should I just call you Dark Agent Number 3?"
"It's Tristan."
"Ah, Tristan! That explains everything. You look like a Tristan." I nod, as if this explains the universe. "Did you know that bears like to sit in the same spot when they’re in captivity? Like, it’s instinctive? You always stay in the same corner too."
He looks at me like I’m speaking another language.
"I’m not a bear."
"Exactly what a bear in disguise would say."
“Okay,” he mutters, unsure whether to laugh or run away. I smile, pleased with myself. Then I push some food away, trying to shift the conversation. "You like Mexican food, right? Olga’s the best with this stuff."
He watches me cautiously but eats. I feel a little bad for him—having to be around me all day. It’s not exactly the most exciting job.
“Don’t you miss home?” I ask, catching him off guard. He shakes his head.
“You can talk to me, you know. I get it.”
Tristan hesitates for a moment, then gives me a small, almost reluctant smile.
"Do you have a family?" I ask, leaning in closer.
"I have a father."
"And your mother?"
He hesitates, then looks at his plate, like the question has stirred something deep. "She died a long time ago."
I soften, my voice gentle. "I’m sorry..."
Tristan just shrugs, but there’s a quiet sadness there. "It’s been a while."
“And brothers? Do you have any?”
“I had a sister.” His eyes wander to the plate, but I can tell he’s not really seeing it. “She passed away too.”
My heart aches for him. I want to reach out, hold his hand, or offer him a hug, but something tells me Tristan doesn’t want that—he’s been alone so long, he probably doesn’t know how to deal with that kind of gesture.
“Do you have anyone else?” I ask, trying to steer the conversation to safer waters.
He shakes his head, eyes distant. “Not a lot of family, not a lot of friends. But that’s okay.”
I give him a wide, reassuring smile. “It’s nothing. You’ve got me now. And as long as you’re my babysitter, you’re stuck with me.”
He laughs, but it’s soft, almost incredulous. I think he’s still trying to figure me out.
“And before you became a security guard, what did you do?”
Tristan looks up, and for the first time, there's a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. “I used to work in a circus.”
My jaw drops. “Seriously?!”
He nods. “Seriously.”
“Oh my God! What did you do? Bend your whole body? Swallow fire? Walk a tightrope?”
“Juggling.”
I clap my hands excitedly. “This is amazing! You have to show me.”
He laughs, as if the idea is absurd. “I don’t know if I’m that good anymore.”
“Oh, please! You’re so serious. You need to prove to me that you were once fun.”
Tristan gives me a look that’s a mix of amusement and disbelief, but in the end, he just shakes his head, laughing softly. “Maybe someday, Mia.”
I lean forward, eager. “That’s amazing! Do you realize those are perfect skills for a dating profile?”
Tristan frowns, clearly confused. “Dating profile?”
“Yeah! I wish I’d known this sooner. Back in my day, we tried to keep people after we tried to kill them,” I joke, and he laughs as he eats more.
“How would I do that?” He looks at me curiously after calming his laughter.
“Like, ‘Hi, my name is Tristan, I’m a former circus performer, I juggle, and I have this air of mystery that makes people want to know more about me.’”
He lets out a nasal laugh. “I don’t think anyone would be interested in that.”
“Are you kidding?” I shake my head, indignant. “Ordinary men only know how to talk about gyms and cars. You’re already ahead of half of them just by being interesting.”
He crosses his arms, giving me a skeptical half-smile. “And how exactly does juggling help me find someone?”
“Hey, you can use it as an icebreaker! I don’t know, imagine: You’re in a rather awkward meeting, and then—out of nowhere—you start juggling three apples. Boom! Suddenly, you’re not just the quiet guy anymore. You’re the quiet guy with skills.”
Tristan laughs, shaking his head. “I don’t know if that would work as well as you think.”
“It works! Wanna see?” I point a finger at him. “Next time you meet someone, tell them about the circus. You’ll see how they’ll want to know more about you.”
He looks at me doubtfully, but there's something amused in his expression. “What if it doesn’t work?”
“If it doesn’t, I’ll find you a date myself.”
Tristan laughs for real this time, throwing his head back. “I think I’ll just trust my luck.”
I shrug, blinking. “Okay. But when someone falls in love with you because of juggling, I want credit.”
Before he can think of a response, I see Zane enter the room.
He stops in his tracks as soon as he sees me sitting with Tristan, his gaze narrowing as if he’s just witnessed a crime.
“What are you doing?” His voice is dry.
I turn to him with a smile.
“Talking. Tristan’s really interesting, you know? He used to be in a circus.”
Zane’s eyes slowly shift from me to Tristan.
“Interesting?”
“Yes! Did you know he has conquering juggling skills?”
Zane blinks slowly.
“Are you evaluating his achievements?”
“No. I mean, maybe? I haven’t finished my research yet.”
Tristan lets out a sigh, clearly regretting sitting here.
Zane pulls up a chair and sits next to me, crossing his arms.
“Since when do you invite security guards to sit with you?”
“Since I noticed they just stand there all day, poor things. I bet no one ever offers them a cup of coffee.”
“He’s on duty.”
“And? He can’t socialize? What do you want? For him to just stare at me all day?”
Zane narrows his eyes.
“Yes.”
Tristan clears his throat uncomfortably.
“I can remain standing, if you prefer.”
“No one asked your opinion, Tristan,” Zane snaps, not even looking at him.
I snort.
“Wow, that’s rude. Tristan, you’re welcome to sit with me whenever you want.”
“No, he’s not.”
“Yes, he is!”
“Mia.”
“Zane.”
Tristan runs a hand over his face, as if he’s had enough of this conversation.
“Can I leave now?”
“No. Now you're part of the conversation. Zane’s jealous. We need to sort this out.”
“I’m not jealous.”
I smile and lean toward Zane.
“Yes, you are.”
He clenches his jaw, but I just laugh and nudge his arm.
“That’s rude, picking on Tristan. I bet you don’t even know what he likes to eat.”
“And you know?”
“No, but I’ll find out. Tristan, what’s your favorite food?”
“…Meat.”
I turn to Zane with a victorious smile.
“See? I already know more about him than you do.”
Zane rubs his face with his hand and lets out a heavy sigh.
“You’re a provocative brat.”
“It’s not my fault you’re horrible at making friends. Be nicer, Zane.”
“Stop being friendly with random people.”
“No.”
“What if they hurt you?”
“Then I’ll just kill them,” I say matter-of-factly. “I’m not going to change myself because of evil men. Let them cease to exist.”
Tristan jumps up. "I guess I better get back to work."
I open my mouth to protest, but before I can, Zane grabs my wrist and pulls me closer to him.
"You get on my nerves."
"And you made me scare Tristan. Now I need to explain to him that I'm not going to kill him." I wink at him, and Zane sighs again, looking away.
But when I stand up to leave, Zane suddenly grabs me, his hands firm on my waist as he pulls me onto his lap. The shift is instant, his body pressing against mine, and a charged silence fills the space between us. God. My breath catches, and I can feel the heat rising between us.
His eyes lock onto mine, but he doesn’t say a word. The tension lingers, heavy and electric, and I can't look away.
“You haven’t finished eating. Eat.”
His tone is low, almost calm—but the steel beneath it is unmistakable. He pulls the plate closer, scoops a bite, and brings the spoon to my lips.
I open my mouth for him, and God, the way he watches me do it—like he’s feeding me something sacred, like the sight of me obeying him sends a pulse straight through his cock.
It’s only the second time he’s done this.
And it already wrecks me.
His hand finds my waist, fingers tracing down the curve of my side with slow, claiming ease. He doesn't rush. He doesn’t have to. He touches me like I’m something expensive he paid for in blood—and he plans to savor every inch.
The heat of him presses against my back, and I feel it—him, hard and thick, nestled between my thighs. A low gasp escapes my lips, more air than sound.
I shouldn’t have worn this damn skirt.
He knows how wet I am for him. I know he knows.
“I should fuck you in this position,” he murmurs, voice rasping against the shell of my ear. “Just like this. So you don’t forget who you fucking belong to.”
I shiver. “Really?”
“Yeah.”
He spreads my legs wider, slow and casual like we have all the time in the world, like he’s just adjusting me. But then his hand slides up my thigh, and he finds the thin lace already damp and clinging to me.
“Would you do it slowly or hard?” I breathe, grinding slightly back into him.
His cock jerks against me.
“Slowly,” he growls. “So you can feel every fucking inch of me. So I can stretch you open again, make you whimper into my neck while I sink into that pretty little pussy.”
A single finger drags my panties to the side. I don't even realize I'm holding my breath until he slips one inside me—deep and unrelenting.
My gasp is sharp and loud.
“Zane—fuck—”
“I’d start slow,” he says, curling that finger deliberately. “But not for long. Not when you’re dripping like this. You’d take me so well, wouldn't you, Mia?”
He pushes another finger in, and I nearly lose my balance. My thighs tremble. My head falls back against his shoulder.
“Then I’d fuck you harder,” he mutters, mouth grazing my jaw as his fingers pump faster, deeper, rougher. “Fast enough to make you forget your own name. Deep enough to remind you who owns this fucking body.”
“Tristan—” I whisper.
“Isn’t here,” he cuts in. “Don’t fucking utter another man’s name, or I’ll deny your release.”
I stay quiet at that.
His thumb brushes my clit, and my breath shatters. My hands grip the edge of the table, knuckles white, vision blurring. I’m gone—already coming—his name caught in my throat.
Zane groans against my neck as I clench around his fingers. “You come so fucking pretty.”
I whimper as he slides his fingers out, slow and wet, then gently pulls my panties back in place like he didn’t just ruin me. Like he didn’t just make me come with the same hand that now steadies the plate again.
He feeds me another bite. I take it, dazed, still pulsing between my legs.
And then—calm as ever—he says:
“Next time you give someone else that flirtatious little smile, I’m going to fuck you in front of them.”
My eyes snap to his. “Zane—”
“I’m not the jealous type,” he says, brushing a lock of hair behind my ear with deceptive gentleness. “But what’s mine is mine. And you, Mia…”
He leans in, lips brushing mine without kissing. His voice drops into something darker, softer.
“You’re mine. Every part of you.”
I bite my lip. “Maybe I’ll smile at someone on purpose.”
His eyes flare.
“Then I’ll bend you over the nearest table, push your face into it, and make you say my name while they watch. I want them to know who fucks you. Who you crawl back to when you’re dripping and aching and full of my cum.”
My breath catches.
“And you’d love it,” he adds softly. “Wouldn’t you?”
I nod, dazed, aching.
Zane smiles, dark and sweet. The kind of smile that promises heaven and hell.
He brings another spoonful to my lips.
“That is my girl. Now eat.”
And once again , I find myself stuck in a Mafia event.
I’d like to chat, but everyone here is more boring than the sports channel.
The room is tense, lit only by a few low-hanging lamps from the ceiling. The smell of burning cigarettes and the distant sound of footsteps echo off the walls. We’re hidden in the shadows of a dark alley, a strange mix of luxury and decadence. Mitchell and Nico, accompanied by a few mafia men, are deep in conversation about the latest business at the table. The heavy silence is broken only by low murmurs and the sound of cards being shuffled.
I sit in a corner, watching it all unfold in silence. The air is thick with tension, suffocating almost. I miss Zane, but I also fear the weight of the life we’re leading. Suddenly, a woman approaches me, a forced smile on her lips and a cold, calculating gaze in her eyes. Hana, a Yakuza woman, stands in front of me, her thick Japanese accent cutting through the silence.
“You should stay away from this, Mia,” she says, her voice harsh and bitter, pausing to assess me. “This world is not for you. Or for him.”
I stare at her, confused. “What?” My voice comes out sharper than I intended, but I can’t hide my discomfort.
She just smiles, cold and distant. “I’m just a pawn in my husband’s game, but it’s allowed me to observe a lot of things. You love your fiancé,” she says, referring to Zane. I try to keep my expression neutral, acting like her words don’t affect me, but they do.
She notices the crack in my facade, and her smile fades, replaced with something almost tired. Her eyes, small and dark, lock onto mine with a precision that makes me want to look away, but I force myself to hold her gaze.
“They’re going to hurt you,” she says, her voice softer now, but the seriousness of her tone makes my chest tighten. “And you need to get away while there’s still time.”
I fall silent, feeling the weight of her words. I know, deep down, she’s right. But… run away? How could I run away from everything I’ve already experienced?
“Are you psychic or something?” I ask, trying to lighten the mood, but my voice shakes a little. “Oh, I know. It’s the medicine, right?” I try to laugh, but it comes out bitter.
Hana doesn’t flinch at my sarcasm. Instead, she just stands there, unfazed. “I observe and analyze everything around me. And believe me, Mia, I can see how wrong you are to think this will end well.” She leans in closer, her eyes unwavering. There’s a coldness in them, a hardness I hadn’t expected. “Loving someone in the mafia is a curse. It’s a constant pain, a war within you. In the end, it’s only a matter of time before they destroy you… or you destroy them.”
I watch her closely now, really looking at her. And suddenly, I see it—something in her eyes. A deep, almost irreparable sadness.
Hana wasn’t just talking about Zane; she was talking about herself, about what this life had done to her.
I observe her more carefully. Her pale skin contrasts with her dark black hair, straight as night. Her eyes, slanted and deep, have a far-off look, as if she’s staring into a place none of us can see. She’s small in stature, but her rigid posture and the cold authority she carries make anyone question her fragility.
“I know what it’s like to live with this pain,” she says, her voice now softer, tinged with bitterness. “I know what it’s like to be used, to feel like every move you make is a risk of being crushed. But that’s the price you pay when you choose this path, Mia. And there’s no going back.”
I remain silent, reflecting. I’ve always known that living alongside Zane in this world would come with its challenges, its sacrifices. But I never imagined the pain would be this great, this constant, as Hana described.
She was right. This world isn’t for me. And yet, here I am. And I love Zane.
But I can’t let her see that.
“You’re going to lose yourself in this game, Mia. And there’s no one to save you.” Her tone is low now, serious, as if she’s making a grim prophecy.
I can only stare at her, trying to comprehend her words, trying to understand how she knows so much about me and about us.
I want to say something, but I’m at a loss for words.
She notices my hesitation, and with a tired sigh, walks away, leaving me lost in thought.
I prepare to follow her, but as I look over at Zane, I see his expression—a mix of irritation and frustration. He’s not good at keeping his mask up, and that’s a problem.
Lucky for him, my father isn’t the giving type. He enjoys letting others do his dirty work, no matter how clumsy the outcome is.
The conversation across the room is growing more tense. Zane, disguised as a mobster, seems to be growing increasingly uncomfortable with something Nico said. Doctor Rachel Wayne is part of the exchange, her calm professionalism clashing with Nico’s sharp tone. Zane starts drinking faster, as if trying to drown out some frustration or anger I can’t quite understand.
My heart races as I watch him drown in his own feelings and problems. That’s when he turns to me, quickly, before stumbling away. He moves into the crowd, making it even harder to find him, but I don’t give up.
I find him eventually, leaning against a pillar, his head buried in the marble as if he doesn’t even know who he is anymore.
He’s very drunk. Very drunk indeed.
“Come on, let’s get you home,” I whisper.
“No, you can’t touch me,” he mumbles, and I find that strange. He’s never been one to deny my touch. I pull back, even though it hurts a little.
“I’ll just take you home, okay? Then I won’t touch you anymore,” I explain.
“No! I’m married. Only my wife can touch me,” he says, his voice husky. All my apprehension melts away at his words.
God. I love this man.
“Zane,” I murmur.
“Go get my wife,” he shouts.
“But I’m your wife, Zane,” I say gently. He looks at me with a certain glint in his eyes.
“Is that you, baby?”
“Yes, it’s me. Your Mia.”
“So please, touch me, baby. I missed you,” he practically throws himself on top of me, and I laugh out loud.
“I missed you too. Now, let’s get you home,” I say, and he looks at me like I’m the most precious thing in the world.
Drunk Zane is an event.
As I walk with him, he turns me toward him, his eyes teary and full of sadness.
“Why did you leave me?” he asks, his voice broken.
"I…”
I’m so taken aback by the question that I can’t form a response.
“I… I can’t function without you. I need you… I’d rather die than live without you. I love you, please don’t leave me, okay?” His words hit me harder than I expected, and a part of me breaks open.
His words shatter something deep inside me, and a part of my heart gives way. I’ve always known, deep down, that Zane—Mitchell, in his disguise—was the man I needed by my side.
Even though our lives are dangerous, twisted, and full of sacrifices, I can’t imagine living without him.
And that "I love you" still hangs in the air. He never confirmed my words. Maybe because he isn’t ready to admit it to himself yet. Maybe he isn’t ready to say it, so I leave it unsaid.
I look at him with softly teary eyes and say, my voice soft but firm, “I am your wife, Zane. I always have been.”