Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
After spending more money than she could comprehend on gowns, shoes, handbags, and jewelry, Mia hovered at the top of the sweeping staircase in one of Luc’s penthouses.
Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the glittering New York skyline, lights stretching like a jeweled sea below.
Crystal chandeliers cast a silver glow over the polished marble floors, while waiters in white jackets floated between clusters of tuxedos and gowns, offering gold-rimmed flutes of champagne and trays of caviar canapés.
Mia’s pulse stumbled. This was Luc’s world—opulent, untouchable, dangerous. Tonight, every eye would be on her.
She stepped forward carefully, testing the red heels strapped to her feet, though the saleswoman had called them “modest.” Her gown was black silk, strapless, clinging to her figure with shocking sensuality.
Rubies glimmered at her throat and ears, bold against her pale skin.
For the first time, Mia realized she looked like a woman who belonged to a mafia king.
Luc appeared at her side with the quiet inevitability of a storm, his hand settling at the small of her back—protective, possessive.
His tuxedo molded to broad shoulders and a powerful frame; the crisp white shirt beneath and bow tie at his throat only emphasized his severity.
But it was his eyes that sent a wild flutter low in her belly.
Was the heat in his gaze genuine? Or just another illusion spun like silk, meant to bind her tighter?
“Why did that man have to lose his arm?” Mia asked quietly, unable to hold the question any longer. The clink of glasses and hum of laughter surrounded them, but she only heard her own heartbeat.
“He should have lost his life,” Luc said, voice cool as stone.
Her breath caught. “Why?”
He pressed a little firmer against her back, guiding her down the stairs, face unreadable.
“He stole from the family. That kind of betrayal cannot go unpunished—not just for him, but as an example. The arm is visible. It reminds others that the cost of crossing us is real. I spared his life, but only to show mercy is earned, not given.”
Mia shivered. The chandeliers sparkled overhead, laughter rang around them, and yet all she could feel was the cold calculation in his words. This was her world now—a world where survival depended on understanding the rules he set, and knowing the man at her side decided how they were enforced.
She stalled halfway down the stairs. “You’re judge and executioner for the Valachi family.”
“Yes.”
“And I?” Her voice softened. “Am I also subject to your judgment?”
“Yes.”
Her heart slammed against her ribs. “What punishment could I expect if I did something wrong?”
“Depends on the crime.”
She smiled faintly, testing him. “If I slapped you?”
He considered her for a beat. “Then I would shower you with gifts—for I would have earned your wrath.”
Mia blinked, off guard. “What if I kissed another man?”
He went so still she almost regretted the question. “I would cut your lips from your face,” he said evenly. “And kill him. Betrayal cannot go unpunished. It is as much about deterrence as vengeance.”
Her breath stalled. “I see,” she whispered.
“Loyalty,” he said simply.
“Will I get the same from you?” she asked, surprised at her steadiness.
Their gazes locked. A slow, sensual smile curved his mouth. “Yes.”
Mia stared at him, certain she’d misheard. Fidelity. From Luc Valachi. The idea felt absurd—men like him didn’t make such promises. Yet the confidence in his tone, the steadiness in his eyes, sent a strange heat through her. Disbelief. Or the dangerous thrill of wanting to believe him.
“Good,” she said softly, lifting her chin. “Because I’m not a woman who tolerates a man’s betrayal.”
Dark amusement mixed with a dangerous kind of approval flickered in his eyes.
The corner of his mouth curved, slow and deliberate, and the look he gave her was pure heat.
Mia’s pulse fluttered. She hadn’t meant to sound jealous or bold, yet the gleam in his eyes told her he liked it.
Liked her saying it. And that realization sent a strange, delicious shiver through her chest.
They continued down, the descent felt endless, every step echoing across the marble floor. All eyes turned upward, conversation dimming to a hush. Luc’s hand pressed firmly at the small of her back, guiding her, anchoring her when her knees threatened to give way.
At the foot of the staircase, he stopped, his voice carrying easily through the hush. “My fiancée, Mia Bonino.”
A ripple went through the crowd—sharp intakes of breath, murmured whispers. Those who understood what the announcement meant traded loaded glances: two families, once fractured, now bound together in an alliance.
Mia’s cheeks burned, her pulse racing as Luc led her forward.
The first half hour passed in a blur of handshakes and tight smiles.
Introductions blurred, one powerful name after another—senators with practiced charm, Wall Street kingmakers with shark-like grins, old dons whose fading scars spoke of battles long past, and newer ones in tailored suits, cleaner, but no less ruthless.
Mia nodded politely, sipped champagne that tasted faintly metallic on her tongue, and let Luc handle the politics.
Through it all, she kept her composure, though her heart hammered like a trapped bird.
It was only when Gabriella appeared at her elbow, laughter bright as a bell, that the tension shifted. She tugged Mia aside, her eyes dancing. “You’re not going to believe this,” she said breathlessly. “Look who’s here.”
Mia turned and nearly dropped her glass.
Two women stood at the far end of the terrace, older than she remembered but unmistakable. One wore her hair pinned up, just like Mia’s mother had once, elegant and severe. The other had the same soft eyes Mia had seen in faded photographs. Her aunts. Her mother’s sisters.
And between them, three younger ladies. Two young women stood near the terrace doors, close in age to Mia—her cousins.
One was laughing too loudly at something a man said, the other was halfway through a glass of champagne, her eyes sparkling with mischief.
A third cousin leaned against the railing, quiet and watchful, her expression softening the moment she noticed Mia.
“Elena?” Mia whispered, her voice cracking. Her cousin. The one who used to braid her hair during thunderstorms.
Elena looked up, and the years fell away.
“Mia?” she breathed, disbelief breaking into joy. Then the dam burst. “I wasn’t sure it would really be you. Gio is on his way. He will be so happy.”
In an instant, Mia was swept into a flurry of perfume, laughter, and tearful kisses. The aunts wept openly, touching her face, her hands, her hair, as though she were a ghost returned to them. Elena clung to her, sobbing, and Mia’s heart cracked with the bittersweet ache of belonging rediscovered.
They chatted for nearly half an hour, catching up on years stolen by silence, before Mia’s gaze drifted across the terrace. In the shadows stood Luc, watching her. His presence was a force, unshakable and possessive, and yet the look in his eyes was unreadable.
Murmuring goodbyes, Mia slipped toward him. “Thank you,” she said softly, emotion tightening her throat. “I never realized how much I missed my family until now.”
“Dance with me,” he commanded.
“I have never danced before,” she whispered.
He smiled, capturing her hands and leading her through the crowd. They slipped through glass doors into the rooftop garden—a sanctuary above the noise. The city stretched beneath them, a glittering sea of lights. Two glasses of Barolo sat waiting on a small table, like an offering.
Luc pulled her close, guiding her into a slow rhythm beneath the stars. She stumbled more than once, her heels tangling with his polished shoes. “Sorry,” she gasped, mortified, then laughed.
His gaze softened, rare and unguarded. “You have a beautiful laugh.”
Mia stared up at him, marveling at the giddy happiness rushing through her. “I have no intention of falling in love with you,” she said wryly. “I just want to get that out there, so you manage your expectations.”
His brow arched. “Why not?”
“Because you want me to,” she replied, scowling at her own honesty. “That makes me feel as though you have… nefarious reasons.”
A smile curved his mouth, wicked and devastating. Her heart skipped a beat.
“You are too handsome,” she muttered, glaring at him as though it might shield her. “Monsters should not be so pretty.”
His expression darkened, affronted. “Pretty? That is too much of an insult.”
She giggled, light and unrestrained, waving toward the waiting glasses. “I’ve never drunk so much alcohol before. It’s loosening my tongue.”
“Ah, that means I should ply you with more.”
The night air was cool, but Luc beside her burned like a brand. His fingers brushed hers as he passed her a glass, sending a fizz of electricity up her arm.
Mia lifted the glass to steady herself. The Barolo was deep and dark on her tongue, a warmth unfurling through her chest that had nothing to do with the wine.
She watched his mouth as she drank and felt ridiculous for being aware of it—the small curve at the corner, the way he sucked the air in when something amused him.
His gaze held hers with an intensity that made everything else fade into the background.
He watched her, and she found herself smiling before she knew why.
She drank again, then once more—two more glasses slipping down, and with each one the world around her softened: the edges of the skyline lost their hard cut, the music from below wrapped around them like a shawl, and a languid warmth pooled low in her belly.
The wine made her limbs loose and liquid; laughter bubbled up more easily.