Page 35 of Sins of the Father
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. Likedhersaying 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.
