Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
Luc had things to do. Critical things. His wedding was less than twenty-four hours away, and yet he had ignored the stack of files awaiting him on his desk.
He needed to meet his informant at the Bureau to discuss the next wave of federal crackdowns targeting their ports.
If the Feds pushed harder, shipments would burn before they touched land, and the Commission would start pointing fingers.
He had to work with his tech chief to trace the missing ten million from their laundering front in Miami—money siphoned by someone bold enough to steal from him, someone he would eventually find, string up, and bleed until their betrayal became a lesson carved in flesh.
And yet—here he was, barefoot, jacket discarded, sprawled on his sofa like a man with no empire to protect, watching Coming to America with his fiancée. His tipsy fiancée, who sang in broken bursts between sips of wine and frowned whenever the film didn’t bend to her expectations.
“I cannot understand why this song has not come as yet,” Mia muttered, her brows knitting.
Luc slanted her a look. “I believe that song belongs to Beauty and the Beast, not this movie.”
She gasped as if he had revealed state secrets, then threw herself dramatically into his lap. Her head landed against his thigh, her eyes gleaming with impish challenge as she peered up at him.
What the hell was happening to him? And worse, why did he like it? Why did her unpredictability carve fissures into the walls he had spent years fortifying?
“You’ve seen Beauty and the Beast?” she demanded.
He didn’t bother telling her the truth—that when she had hidden herself away in that tiny apartment in St. Joseph, he’d seen her watch it over and over on her battered television.
He’d wondered what fascination it held for her.
He’d even watched it himself afterward. And, in the dark cruelty of his thoughts, he had decided Gaston was the real hero.
Ruthless. Single-minded. Brutal in his pursuit. The kind of man who never lost.
The irony wasn’t lost on him now—her head in his lap, her laughter filling his ears, while just hours ago he had ordered a man’s arm severed for theft.
Two worlds. Oil and water. And he was the one foolish enough to believe he could keep them balanced in his hands without drowning her in the darkness of his own.
His hands were soaked in blood, his mind forged from violence, and yet here he was, letting a woman crawl into his lap as though she had the right.
Mia straddled him, her legs caging his hips, the silk of her gown brushing his trousers. Her hands framed his jaw with a reverence he didn’t deserve. For one dangerous second, Luc felt stripped bare—not by her questions, but by the softness in her eyes.
“You are like my very own beast,” she whispered, her thumb brushing across the stubble on his cheek. “I know I have barely scratched the surface of who you are, but I want to know so much. Tell me—” her lips hovered over his, breath warm, trembling—“is it foolish and dangerous to have this desire?”
“No.” His voice came out low, rough.
She sighed and brushed her mouth over his, the fleeting touch sparking through him like raw current. “Do you make promises, Luc?”
“Only if I can keep them. I don’t vow to do things beyond my capabilities.”
Again, her lips ghosted his, teasing, coaxing.
That miniature contact was maddening. His body tightened, a rush of need cutting through him sharp and desperate.
He had bedded women before—countless, nameless—but none of them had ever reduced him to this raw ache.
None of them had made him feel out of control.
“Would you promise to never hurt me?” she asked softly, her gaze wide, guileless.
“No.” His voice was iron.
Her breath caught. But Luc’s thoughts had already turned dark, twisting inward.
If Mia tried to walk away in a year, it would not be one of his soldiers who put her down.
It would be him. The code demanded it. The Commission demanded it.
And yet… his very soul recoiled at the thought.
It was like imagining his own hand slitting his throat.
The revulsion made him stiffen, his eyes narrowing into slits.
Mia tilted her head, her gaze searching his face, her lips curving faintly. “You do not need a scar to be menacing,” she whispered.
Her words pierced through his armor more ruthlessly than any bullet. For a man who had lived his whole life wielding fear, here was a woman who saw his menace, acknowledged it… and wasn’t afraid.
Or was it the alcohol that gave her this liquid courage?
He stilled, just for a heartbeat. Luc did not fool himself; he knew it was because she had only seen the tiniest fraction of the man he was.
“What is your favorite cartoon?”
He almost laughed. “I have none.”
“Let me guess—too busy? Too focused? Too… serious? What were you like as a kid?”
The questions caught him off guard. His fingers tightened around her hips for the briefest moment. “Quiet. Observant. Always thinking three steps ahead.”
Mia smirked. “So… the same as now, just shorter?”
A flicker of amusement rushed through him. “Something like that.”
She pressed further, unwilling to let him slip away with shadows. “Did you ever get in trouble?”
“Not in the way you mean.”
Mia narrowed her eyes. “Vague answers don’t count. Try again.”
Luc exhaled slowly, his gaze steady but unreadable. “In my family, rebellion wasn’t an option. Every choice had weight. Every mistake carried consequences. I learned early to play the game better than anyone else.”
“Since it’s a game,” she asked softly, “what’s the prize?”
His eyes locked on hers, hard and unflinching. “Survival.”
Her throat tightened. “Sounds lonely.”
His jaw flexed, muscle ticking. “I had no time for loneliness.”
Mia’s heart ached. “You never got to have a childhood… You weren’t taken to the cinema to watch cartoons; you weren't taken to the park to go on rides, run from clowns, and eat cotton candy. My father did that with me, took me to the park, before everything changed. You didn’t play with trucks or dolls. ”
One dark brow arched. “Dolls?”
“I thought you were progressive?”
Luc laughed.
What the hell was happening? He didn’t know. But one thought cut through the haze with brutal clarity: he hoped this life never changed her. That it never hardened her into another jade weighed down by blood and shadows.
Mia shifted in his lap, her thighs caging his hips, heat radiating from her in waves that made Luc’s pulse pound like war drums. Her gaze was steady—dark blue, gleaming with a boldness he hadn’t expected.
“There is a heat in my belly,” she whispered, her voice husky with wine and something far more dangerous. “And I want it satisfied.”
Luc stiffened, every muscle taut. He said nothing, too aware of the storm she had already conjured inside him. But she only smiled, a slow, wicked curve of lips that should never belong to a convent girl, and reached between them.
The sound of his zipper lowering filled the silence like a gunshot. Her slender fingers wrapped around him, and Luc swore viciously under his breath.
“You’re so thick,” she murmured in wonder, stroking him with tentative, daring fingers. “My hand can hardly fit around you.”
Her lack of fear was like a blade to his chest. He had not touched another woman since the first moment he’d seen her picture, and now here she was—taking what she wanted as if she owned him already.
“Curious,” she whispered, her eyes glittering. “You said you haven’t had anyone else since me.”
“Yes,” he ground out, jaw tight, every nerve lit like fire.
Her smile widened, shameless. She rose onto her knees, shifting her panties to the side, and pressed the blunt head of his cock through her slick folds.
Luc groaned, the sound ripped from deep inside him, his control splintering as heat and wetness stroked over him. He almost spilled right then like an untried boy.
“Fucking hell,” he snarled, hips jerking upward despite his iron will.
“Oh,” Mia breathed, her voice lilting, teasing. “I read about this in a book. I never expected it to feel so good.”
She rocked against him, sliding his length over her aching center, the swollen tip catching on her clit with every pass. A wild cry broke from her throat, and wetness flooded over him, slick and sweet.
Luc’s head dropped back, a guttural curse leaving him. He had thought to tame her, to teach her—but she was the one undoing him. Bold. Reckless. Taking her pleasure without fear.
Luc’s jaw clenched, his breath ragged as Mia rocked against him, her slick heat sliding over his length like fire. His self-control shredded with every pass, and when she cried out again, arching against him, he bit back a groan so raw it felt torn from his soul.
Through gritted teeth, he rasped, “Tell me, Mia… do you still want to wait until after the wedding?”
She stilled, the bold gleam in her eyes softening into something else—something luminous. Then, with a small smile, she nodded. “Yes.”
Before he could curse, rage, or even reason with himself, she rested her head on his shoulder as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Within seconds, her breathing evened, the weight of sleep pulling her under.
Astonished, Luc stared down at her. The little dove had undone him with her boldness, stoked fires in him he had never known existed and then had the audacity to fall asleep in his arms as if he were safe. As if he were human.
A rough chuckle broke from him, startling even himself. Shifting carefully, he gathered her up against his chest, stood, and carried her into the bedroom. He did not let go as he lowered himself onto the bed, Mia curled warm and soft against him.
For the first time in his life, Luciano Valachi closed his eyes with someone in his arms—and slept.