Page 17 of Sins of the Father
Thomas’s voice crackled through the encrypted line, so quiet that Luc could hear the leather creak as his enforcer shifted in the surveillance car.
“She’s good. Keeps herself in crowds, uses cash only, and mostly keeps to herself. She started to wait tables at a local diner, but only two days a week.”
Luc flexed his hand around the phone, the gold signet ring biting into his palm.His runaway fiancée was smart, much more so than men in this life who had tried to run. She was adapting.Not enough to matter—not against his resources—but enough to send dark approval curling through his gut. His little dove had fight in her.
“There is something else,” Thomas said, a slight hesitancy in his tone.
“Oh?” Luc drawled.
The word was a quiet blade, and he heard his man swallow through the line.
“The diner owner seems sweet on her,” Thomas said. “Earlier, when she had lunch… he joined her and she… well…she laughed a few times at whatever he said. The man seemed damned please with himself afterward.”
Luc smiled, humorless. “Go on.”
“Apartment’s clean,”Thomas continued after clearing his throat.“She wouldn’t think of or know to check the vents or sweep for listening devices. Still thinks four locks make her safe.”
The unspokenpoor thinghung between them.
She shouldn’t have to.The thought came unbidden, and Luc stilled, annoyed at the errant thought. “Maintain distance and do nothing to scare her. One shadow lost, one photo missed, and I’ll peel the skin from your flesh myself.”
“Yes, boss.” The call died with aclick.
Luc leaned back into the cathedral-like silence of his surveillance suite, where twelve monitors glowed like stained glass in the predawn dark. Center screen: Mia’s shabby apartment, all thrift store furniture and sun-faded curtains. He watched her bare feet pad across the threadbare rug she’d bought for five dollars at a garage sale. Luc knew her every step, every habit, every secret—his surveillance left no part of her life untouched.
The remote clicked in her hand. Then, there was explosive pop music, the kind that used to make his father sneer aboutdegenerate youths, as Luc secretly tapped his fingers under the dinner table. Mia’s hips swayed, off-rhythm and glorious, her tank top riding up to reveal the scar not mentioned in the report from John. Luc wondered how a girl who lived such a sheltered life could get such a scar.
“Christ,”he muttered as she leaped onto the couch armrest, arms windmilling, laughing when she nearly toppled. His body moved before his brain—leaning in, hand outstretched—as if he could catch her through the screen. The phantom weight of her body flashed through his mind: how would she feel in his arms?Her body appeared petite and lithe with subtle curves, invoking carnal thoughts no sister of a nunnery would comprehend.
Then her laughter curled through him. There it was again—that slow, insistent pulse of fascination that bled through his veins whenever he watched her. It had only been three weeks since he started watching her, yet to Luc it felt as though he already knew her.
She liked scrambled eggs and strawberries, eating them every morning with the same relish and delight as if she were eating them for the first time. She’d discovered music in the kind of way that made him ache; he still remembered the look of wonder on her face the first time she sat listening to old soul records from the sixties. She particularly loved The Drifters, her voice always lifting in a soft, imperfect rendition ofUnder the Boardwalkwhile she showered.
Yes, he even had eyes there. He told himself he only watched when she bathed for safety reasons—but when the water slid over her skin, when her hands smoothed soap along her body as she stomped and sang Elvis’s songs, lust surged hot and hard through him. He knew she had never done such things at the convent, not with such abandon, not with such joy.
She liked thrillers and crime dramas, stacked them neatly by her bedside, and devoured them late into the night. She laughed at romantic comedies, adored old black-and-white films, and was captivated by cartoons. On Sunday afternoons, she buried herself in classic literature, letting the words carry her far from the small, careful life she led. That week, she rereadPride and Prejudicethree times, savoring Elizabeth’s wit, and returned toAnna Kareninafour times, her chest tightening at the tragedy, whispering consolations to the characters as if they might hear.
Luc had smiled at the ridiculousness of it all, and yet, to his surprise, there was a part of him inexplicably charmed. There were days when she sat curled on the sofa, one foot tuckedbeneath her, her dark blonde hair falling loose around her face as silent tears traced down her cheeks. In those moments, she looked achingly small, fragile in a way that stirred something violent in him. He saw her loneliness then, the fear that her life was changing beyond her control, that she lacked the strength or the means to stop it.
And in those moments, the urge in him deepened into something darker, more consuming. He wanted to tell her he could lay the world at her feet, watch those silly cartoons with her if it pleased her, and slaughter anything that dared to bring her pain. The thought of her sadness stirred not pity but possession—an unrelenting need to keep her close, to keep her his. Even if he was the one who had put tears in her eyes, he wanted to be the only one allowed to wipe them away.
Luc thought it was fucking ridiculous.
The monitors flickered. Now she was curled in a nest of blankets, shoveling popcorn into her mouth while some Hollywood romance played. When the hero dropped to one knee, Luc saw the way her breath hitched, how her fingers crept to her own left hand, touching where a ring might be.
This was why he’d let her run.His world was brutal, unforgiving. There was no space for softness, no room for freedom. Giving her this was his way of offering something before he claimed her—because once she belonged to him, there would be no leaving. The dark possession he kept shoving aside all week surged now, and this time, he didn’t fight it.
He liked watching her dance alone in that tiny apartment—moonlight spilling through the narrow window, painting her in an ethereal glow that made her seem untouchable. She looked like something rare and distant, a jewel meant only to be admired, never possessed.
He liked seeing her bite her lip at love stories, catching the sweet, private smiles, and the way she tossed her head back when she laughed. His phone vibrated.
A text from Thomas:Boss, Miss Bonino received a full-time offer at the diner today but turned it down. She said it’s because she’s leaving soon. Should we bring her in?
Luc’s thumb hovered over the screen.
Planning on running again, little dove?He could let this charade continue for longer. Let her run again and keep watching her blossom in captivity like a hothouse flower.He pressed a number and brought the phone to his mouth. “Thomas.”
“Sir?”
