Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
Luc had never spent an entire day with a woman before.
Never lingered in the simplicity of laughter, never felt charmed by something so fragile and fleeting.
He had never walked along the beach in the dark, talking about the stars as though they mattered.
And yet here he was—after hours of teaching Mia how to swim, coaxing her back into the water to paddle on his surfboard, sharing lunch in private, and now walking the stretch of sand that bordered his home.
Night had fallen, the ocean breathing steadily beside them.
She was still restless, filled with an energy that defied the long day.
Barefoot, she ran ahead, her blonde hair catching the salt wind, her laughter carrying over the surf.
He watched her, his jaw tightening, because the peculiar sensation burrowing in his chest was foreign. It felt almost like contentment.
He hated it.
Contentment softened men, dulling their edges and making them vulnerable.
And yet, seeing her there—spinning once with her arms out, head tipped back to drink in the moonlight—he couldn’t stop the thought that she looked like something he could never own.
His fingers curled, his blood heating with the reminder: she was caged. By him. For him.
Luc followed, his longer strides eating up the distance until he was close enough to catch the faint sound of her breathless joy.
The sound sank beneath his skin, clawing at parts of him he had thought long buried.
He told himself it was only the novelty of it—of her.
That he would grow used to her brightness as one does the sun. But the truth whispered darker.
He didn’t want to get used to it. He wanted to keep it, hoard it, even twist it if he must.
When she glanced back at him, eyes gleaming in the moonlight, Luc felt that same dangerous pull again—the one that whispered he could almost believe in the illusion of a wife, a home, a family that wasn’t carved out of blood and power.
Almost.
But illusions shattered, and he had long ago vowed never to bleed for one.
Luc caught up to her, and without hesitation, she slipped her hand into his. He stilled at the unexpected intimacy. When she glanced up, amusement danced in her dark-blue eyes.
“Relax,” she drawled. “This isn’t the love bug. Your hand is just warm.”
Amusement flickered through him despite himself, though her unguarded touch made him wonder what madness had driven him to let her in that far.
Mia faltered, head tilting. From farther down the beach came a burst of laughter—animated, youthful. “Is that Gabriella?”
“Sounds like it.” Luc’s gaze narrowed into the distance, though the figures were little more than shadows against the sand. Tension hummed through him as he tugged Mia deeper into the shadows, guiding her toward the sound. She didn’t question him, though her hand stiffened in his.
Gabriella walked beside one of her university friends, their laughter spilling into the night—reckless dares, wild escapades, the kind of carefree rebellion only possible for those untouched by consequence.
Behind them, Carlos followed—silent, steady, watching.
Luc’s eyes sharpened. He saw the way Carlos’s fingers twitched when Gabriella stumbled in the sand, how his jaw flexed when she teased about sneaking into an underground club in Naples.
That wasn’t vigilance—it was possession.
And that was a problem. A bodyguard’s loyalty should never turn into a man’s hunger.
Carlos had been Gabriella’s shadow since she was sixteen, assigned by Luc himself after an attempted kidnapping. Back then, his watchfulness had been purely professional. Now, Luc caught the lingering gaze at the curve of her neck—the hunger barely concealed beneath duty.
Luc’s grip tightened unconsciously around Mia’s hand. She gave a soft gasp. He ignored it, a cold fury coiling in his gut. He had trusted Carlos with his life, with his family’s lives. But trust in their world was a currency, and Carlos was spending it recklessly.
Gabriella was young, na?ve. She didn’t understand that in their world, affection was just another kind of leash—the same one his mother urged him to fasten around Mia.
But Luc refused to let his cousin be bound by anyone before her worth to the family was secured.
Gabriella’s marriage would be an alliance, one that strengthened their reach.
And if Carlos’s devotion threatened that, Luc would cut it out at the root.
Luc’s gaze flicked to Mia, who was staring up at him with wide, questioning eyes, her expression unreadable in the silver wash of moonlight.
“Should they not be together?” she asked softly.
His gaze sharpened. “Is his attachment that obvious?”
Something unreadable flickered in her eyes before she turned back toward Gabriella and Carlos.
“No, of course not.”
Luc’s jaw tightened. He lifted his other hand, closing it around Mia’s neck in a ruthless clasp that made her go still beneath his touch. The fragile flutter of her pulse beat against his fingers like a bird’s wings caught in a snare.
“Do not ever seek to protect another man again,” he said, his voice low and dangerous.
“Oh.” Mia’s lips curved, startling him with the beauty of that small smile. “Are you supposed to fall in love as well?”
The words struck him like a blade between the ribs. He had not expected her to answer, much less with that bold, cutting softness.
That small smile lingered on her mouth, brazen despite his grip on her throat. As if she didn’t realize he could snap her neck as easily as a twig—or worse, as if she did realize and refused to flinch.
“I read somewhere,” she murmured, dark blue eyes glinting with reckless courage. “That jealousy is born of love—and that obsession and fury follow close behind. Since you’re furious that I defended a man I barely know… is it jealousy?”
Luc released her as if her words had burned through his skin.
His chest heaved once, twice, battling the chaos unraveling inside him.
Jealousy. Love. Words that belonged to weaker men, simpler lives.
And yet—before he could stop himself—he yanked her against him, crushing her softness to the hard planes of his body.
His mouth took hers in a violent, hungry claim.
The kiss began as punishment, brutal and unyielding, but it shifted—deeper, hotter—until it became something raw, consuming, and dangerously close to need.
Mia’s breath caught against his lips. For one heartbeat, she resisted, then she yielded, her arms winding around his shoulders, returning his kiss with an enthusiasm that made his blood pound hot and vicious through his veins.
Luc crushed his mouth against hers, heat igniting between them until thought itself burned away.
She melted into him, arms winding around his neck, and he surrendered to the hunger clawing inside him.
With a rough growl, he lifted her easily, her legs locking around his hips as if they belonged there.
The rawness of it—her body pressed tight to his, every inch of her heat against him—made his blood thunder.
He started toward a lounge chair, every step steeped in dark intent, when Mia broke the kiss.
Breathless and trembling, she pressed her lips to his once more and whispered, “I would like to be married first.”
Luc stilled, the words slicing through the haze of lust. Married first. That absurd, delicate sensitivity could only have been bred in convent walls.
A harsh laugh rumbled in his chest, though not aloud.
Was he truly expected to wait? The thought almost amused him.
Another part of him, darker and less patient, found it absurd.
Would heaven itself strike him down if he claimed her before vows were spoken?
Or if he simply took what was already his by right?
She belonged to him. He could do as he pleased.
Then her fingers brushed his mouth—light, tentative, searching—as if she were trying to know him through touch alone.
In the dark, her eyes lifted to his, unguarded and luminous.
“I want you,” she confessed, her voice trembling but resolute.
“I cannot hide from that knowledge. I have never desired anyone before you, Luc.”
Her throat worked on a swallow, her heart hammering against her ribs with such force he could feel it against his chest.
“I know you could ignore whatever I say, dismiss it as nothing… but I want to wait until our wedding night.”
For the first time in his life, Luc relented. He set her down carefully, his hands lingering at her waist, branding her with his restraint.
“As you wish.”
She laughed, the sound carried away by the wind. “Yes, my sweet Westley.”
Luc stilled, his gaze narrowing. “What did you just call me?”
“It’s from The Princess Bride,” Mia said breathlessly. “You said, ‘As you wish.’ Don’t tell me you’ve never seen it?”
“I have not,” he said dryly. “There was no Westley for me to murder, after all.”
Mia clasped her hands, excitement lighting her eyes. “Please—have a movie night with me.”
Luc blinked, as if she’d spoken a foreign language. “No.”
Her delight faltered. “Oh. Why not?”
“It is not something I do.”
“You don’t watch TV? Or go to the cinema?”
“No.”
“That’s…” She shook her head, softening. “I’ve never been to the cinema either. I’d like to go one day. It would be nice if you came with me.”
Something in him lurched—an unfamiliar pull, deep and unsteady. “Why would we go to the cinema?”
“To watch a movie, of course,” she said, laughing.
He noted the hopeful look in her eyes but only said, “It’s colder. Let’s return.”
Mia tilted her head, studying him. “I never thought you’d respect my wish to wait,” she murmured. “Thank you.”
Her words landed deeper than they should have. She rose on her toes and pressed a brief kiss to his mouth—a whisper of intimacy that was hers, not taken. When she stepped back, her warmth left him, and for the first time, she had been the one to close the distance.
It was a small act of defiance. And that, Luc realized with grim satisfaction, only made him hunger for her more.
The chamber smelled of cigars and old leather—a room where power pressed like a hand on the throat. The Commission crowded the long, oak table, faces carved by age and ruthless memory. Matteo Bonino, invited and ill at ease, sat rigid; none but Luc knew why they’d been called.
Luc stepped forward with a folder, every movement deliberate. “I have come to inform you that I am marrying Mia Bonino. The contract is signed.” He laid the paper on the polished wood.
A ripple moved around the table. Matteo stood, chair scraping, voice iron. “Mia Bonino? Ettore’s daughter?”
“Yes.”
The man sucked air. “No.”
Luc smiled. “I wasn’t asking.”
Matteo flared. “You think you can steal blood that belongs to my house? She carries our name—our legacy. I will not have her used as your pawn.”
Luc met him without heat. “You needn’t allow it. The Commission decides.”
Carbone’s jaw tightened. Marchetti’s rosary clicked once and fell still. Lombardi toyed with his glass. Moretti watched, cane at hand, unreadable as stone.
Luc opened the folder and set another item on the table—proof, planning, leverage.
“The Bonino family is exposed and fractured. The Feds have probed your ports. Smaller gangs pick at your borders. Left alone, your line will be consumed by raids and indictments. Join a unified command and that vulnerability ends.”
He let that hang, then cut sharper. “Accept this merger and you gain practical protection. Bonino intelligence integrates with Valachi security. Your docks and routes are shielded. Unaffiliated predatory gangs are routed. You remain head in name and in daily command. What changes is who holds ultimate authority. Your heir answers to me. Refuse, and your household will be burned. That is not a threat—it is a certainty I can execute.”
Matteo’s face went ashen. The clock ticked in the hush. Carbone rubbed his temple; Marchetti’s lips tightened; Lombardi paused mid-swirl.
“You would strip us of our independence,” Matteo hissed, fury edged with bargaining.
“No.” Luc’s voice was even, cold. “I give you survival. You keep local authority, your name, your children remain Bonino. The architecture of power changes: your heir gains Valachi protection alongside Bonino reach. When my heir—Ettore’s grandchild—is born, your heir will recognize them as the rightful head.
That arrangement secures the ports and spares us a bloody war. ”
Moretti tapped his cane, measured. “You fold them into your line and demand loyalty. If it breaks, their house pays.”
Luc tapped the contract. “Yes.”
Matteo tightened his grip on the glass but stayed seated. “Who signed that?”
Luc passed the documents. “Ettore Bonino and my father.”
Silence settled. Carbone’s face shifted between regret and calculation. Lombardi’s mouth twitched. Marchetti’s rosary hung slack. Matteo’s knuckles went white, but he did not rise.
“Then the Commission rules,” the eldest commissioner said. “A unified line serves stability. We’ll put it to a vote.”
The vote was a ceremony of inevitability. One by one, the heads nodded. Only Matteo abstained, eyes burning. The verdict sealed the future.
Luc gathered the contract, the weight of the paper like a legal scalpel.
As he left the chamber, Matteo Bonino’s glare cut into his back.
It was not mere anger. It was rage and hatred.
Luc felt it like heat against his spine, but he only smiled.
Should Matteo cross the line, Luc would wipe out his entire line.