Page 36 of Sins of the Father
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 sohappy.”
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 withyou,” 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.
Luc shifted, his shoulder brushing hers as he turned to look over the skyline. The heat of him seeped through the thin fabric of her dress. She fought the urge to lean into that warmth and found, bewilderingly, she did not want to run.
They stood in a quiet lull. A sultry song drifted up from below, the kind that made her pulse stutter. Somewhere near the terrace edge, a cork popped and someone laughed, high and careless. Mia breathed it in.
“I used to dream about this city,” she said softly. “At night in the convent, I’d picture the lights and the noises of the world. I thought if I could see everything moving so fast, I’d never have to think.” The admission felt naked and small in the space between them.
“And now?” Luc’s voice was barely a whisper; his breath warmed the shell of her ear and sent a shiver down her spine.
“Now it’s slower,” she said, surprising herself with the truth. “Or maybe just quieter next to you.” The words were foolish and honest, leaving her feeling oddly exposed.
He turned to her then. His gaze darkened, intense, as if he were stripping her down to the part of herself she kept locked away. “I don’t want to be a prison for you,” he said, a faint frown tugging at his brows.
Mia laughed softly, the sound light but trembling at the edges. “That is good to know.”
His gaze lingered on her, then he lifted a hand and traced a finger along her cheek. The touch was deceptively gentle, but there was possession in it too—an unspoken claim that made her heart stutter.
“You’re… different when you laugh,” he murmured, almost to himself.
