Page 32 of Sins of the Father
“You would strip us of our independence,” Matteo hissed, fury edged with bargaining.
“No.” Luc’s voice was even, cold. “I give you survival. You keep local authority, your name, your children remain Bonino. The architecture of power changes: your heir gains Valachi protection alongside Bonino reach. When my heir—Ettore’s grandchild—is born, your heir will recognize them as the rightful head. That arrangement secures the ports and spares us a bloody war.”
Moretti tapped his cane, measured. “You fold them into your line and demand loyalty. If it breaks, their house pays.”
Luc tapped the contract. “Yes.”
Matteo tightened his grip on the glass but stayed seated. “Who signed that?”
Luc passed the documents. “Ettore Bonino and my father.”
Silence settled. Carbone’s face shifted between regret and calculation. Lombardi’s mouth twitched. Marchetti’s rosary hung slack. Matteo’s knuckles went white, but he did not rise.
“Then the Commission rules,” the eldest commissioner said. “A unified line serves stability. We’ll put it to a vote.”
The vote was a ceremony of inevitability. One by one, the heads nodded. Only Matteo abstained, eyes burning. The verdict sealed the future.
Luc gathered the contract, the weight of the paper like a legal scalpel. As he left the chamber, Matteo Bonino’s glare cut into his back. It was not mere anger. It was rage and hatred. Luc felt it like heat against his spine, but he only smiled. Should Matteo cross the line, Luc would wipe out his entire line.
CHAPTER TEN
The kitchen smelled of sugar and cocoa. Mia stood at the marble counter, hair in a messy bun, wisps damp at her temples. A bead of sweat slid down her neck as she smoothed the last of the chocolate frosting.
Maria, the house chef, hovered in the doorway, arms crossed, brows drawn; her eyes moved between Mia and the cake, as if deciding whether it was an offering or a weapon.
Mia set the knife down. Her pulse jumped. Luc hadn’t eaten chocolate cake in years—he didn’t trust anyone enough to make it for him. Maybe he’d decided never to be softened again.
That thought had kept her awake the night before. The man who’d kissed her with ruthless hunger wasn’t a single thing; he ruled by force, but she could sense something under the armor. She hated herself for noticing.
She wasn’t naïve enough to think sugar would change him. Still, she hoped the cake might show her intention: that, for as long as she was his, she meant to carve out something livable between them. Her hands shook as she wiped frosting from her wrist. When she carried the cake to him, he would either see a gesture of peace—or a weakness to exploit.
Mia drew a breath, bracing herself. Her palms were slick against the platter as she carried the frosted cake down the hall. Her hair was still warm from the kitchen’s heat, pinned in a messy bun, the scent of cocoa clinging stubbornly to her skin.
She nearly faltered when she saw Rosina and Gabriella standing near the stairwell. Their conversation stopped, both gazes—one cool and sharp, the other wide with bright astonishment—fixing on her and the cake balanced in her hands. Heat flushed Mia’s cheeks, and she ducked her head as she passed. She didn’t need their words; the look on their faces said enough. What was a girl raised in a convent doing bringing offerings to a mafia don?
At Luc’s office door, she hesitated, the weight of the cake suddenly enormous. She lifted her hand and knocked, knuckles barely brushing the wood.
“Enter,” came the gruff command from within.
Her stomach swooped. She nudged the door open and froze.
There were four men inside, the air heavy with cigar smoke and violence. One knelt on the carpet, his shirt torn, blood streaking down his face. His breath came in ragged sobs as he begged for mercy. The others stood like wolves circling carrion, their gazes sharp, pitiless.
But it was Luc’s expression that almost sent Mia to her knees. Cold. Detached. As if the man bleeding before him was no more consequential than a broken glass.
The fragile illusion of normalcy she had been clinging to these past nights—of laughter at the beach, of stolen kisses, of warmth she had mistaken for safety—shattered in an instant.
“I…” Her voice cracked. She clutched the platter tighter, knuckles white. “I brought you… a cake.”
One of the men turned, his eyes lingering on her longer than they should have. The stare slid over her body, insolent and sharp, and Mia’s throat closed with revulsion.
Luc’s voice cut like a blade. “Do you wish to lose your eyes?”
The man flinched, snapping his gaze away. But Luc’s remorseless stare stayed locked on him, a silent threat that chilled Mia more than the words.
Her heart thundered. She cleared her throat, wishing she could vanish. “I’ll… come back later.”
“Stay,” Luc said, his voice low, unyielding.
