mia cara

"Here, cara mia. Let me tend to those knuckles."

Lucian’s voice is low, smooth, but there’s an unspoken warning beneath it—a silent promise that I will not be lied to. He lets me take his champagne flute from his fingers, setting it back on our table before he reaches for my other hand and leads me away from the crowd.

His brows furrow, his expression caught between confusion and something sharper. Disapproval, perhaps. I can’t be sure.

"If this is about Agosti—"

"You don’t have to do this," I murmur, cutting him off as I gently dab at the blood seeping from a small split in one of his swollen knuckles.

"Nonsense," I say before he can protest again. "I don’t want you getting blood on my dress."

Lucian watches me, his gaze assessing, searching, peeling me apart layer by layer. He says nothing at first, but I can feel the weight of his thoughts pressing against me, as if he’s deciding just how much to reveal. The silence stretches until it becomes its own kind of tension.

Then, finally, he speaks.

"Before I even came to your father’s house that night, I had chosen you."

My fingers still for half a heartbeat.

"Tell me," I say, keeping my tone even despite the sharp twist in my gut. "Is there any truth to his accusations? Did you marry me for the power of my nonno’s name?"

Lucian exhales through his nose, his jaw tightening. "Yes. I chose you for the influence your family legacy might bring me. The loyalty I might gain from marrying a Luciano."

I nod slowly, my heart pounding even though I force my face to remain neutral.

"The fact that you turned out to be… you," he continues, "was just a pleasant surprise."

Pleasant.

The word lingers in the air between us, cold and clinical, like I was nothing more than a calculation he made.

I should be furious. Betrayed.

Instead, all I can think about is how ruthless he is—how carefully he orchestrated everything, down to the smallest detail.

"Lucian," I murmur, lacing my fingers through his injured hand. "I am not angry you played your game. I expected nothing less from the man who could make New York tremble at the mere mention of his name. I am angry that you didn’t share your plans with me."

His lips part as if to argue, but I tighten my grip slightly, a silent warning that I am not done.

"My father insisted I keep my mother’s name a secret my entire life," I say, searching his face. "He told me it was to protect me, to keep me hidden from his enemies. But now I wonder—did he keep it from me to use me as his last bargaining chip? And did you let him fall into your debt, knowing exactly what you would demand in return?"

Lucian doesn’t deny it. He doesn’t even blink.

Dishonesty aside, I have to admire him. The sheer audacity of it. The cunning.

"You should have told me," I say quietly. "But I would be lying if I said I hadn’t had the same idea."

His brow lifts slightly. "Oh?"

I let a slow smile curl at the corner of my lips.

"From the moment my papà begged you to take me as your wife, I knew I had the chance to become a reigning queen next to the great Lucian Boncini. And I knew that together, we could own this city."

Lucian smirks. "Then why the hell did you fight me every step of the way, piccina?"

"Because I had to show you who I was," I answer simply. "Show you that I wouldn’t be crushed beneath your boot."

He exhales a deep groan at the title, dragging his lips across my jaw, down to my collarbone. I tip my head back, relishing the way he hungers for me.

"You impossible woman," he whispers against my skin. "You’re lucky I find that attitude of yours so intoxicating."

I smile, threading my fingers into his hair, tugging just enough to make him exhale sharply. "I know."

---

The reception stretches on, but Lucian never strays far from me. Everywhere we go, his hand finds my waist, his lips brush my temple, my cheek, my lips. The physical connection is constant, but never enough. The anticipation coils tight in my stomach, evolving from slow-burning embers to something all-consuming.

"I’ve had enough of other people," he murmurs in my ear as another song draws to a close. "I refuse to waste another minute not having you beneath me."

A shiver races down my spine.

I nod, and without another word, Lucian sweeps me into his arms, cutting through the crowd with single-minded purpose.

---

By the time we reach our bedroom, my breath is unsteady. He places me on the bed—gently, reverently—before stepping back, shrugging out of his tuxedo jacket and tossing it aside.

Then he just stands there, watching me.

I chew the inside of my cheek, resisting the urge to shift under his scrutiny. He’s waiting for something

Aurora barely suppresses a shiver as Lucian’s fingers trail down the delicate row of buttons on his shirt, one by one, unveiling smooth, inked skin beneath. She bites her lip, half-amused, half-mesmerized, as he takes his time.

Her gown slips from her shoulders, pooling at her feet in a cascade of silk and lace. The cool air kisses her bare skin, but it’s the way Lucian watches her that makes heat bloom beneath the surface. He steps closer, his fingertips grazing up her arms, his touch featherlight yet searing.

"Am I not allowed to take my time, husband?" she murmurs, tilting her chin in defiance, though her pulse betrays her.

Lucian’s eyes darken, hunger and restraint warring in their depths. “Piccina,” he breathes, his voice a low warning, “you’re testing me.”

Aurora feigns innocence, though she knows exactly what she’s doing. His patience is razor-thin, fraying at the edges, but she wants to see how far she can push him before he snaps. Before he claims her with the kind of need she has only dreamed of.

She lifts her hands to his chest, fingers brushing over the intricate tattoos that wind across his skin—dark ink dancing with silvered scars, a map of his past written on his body. With deliberate slowness, she peels his shirt from his shoulders, letting her hands trace every ridge, every muscle beneath.

Lucian inhales sharply as she presses a soft kiss just below his Adam’s apple. She lingers there, feeling the steady thrum of his pulse, before whispering, “Touch me.”

His restraint shatters.

In an instant, he seizes her wrist, pinning it above her head as his lips crash against hers. The kiss is demanding, devouring, as if he’s been starved of her for lifetimes. She whimpers against his mouth, arching into him, but he doesn’t let go—doesn’t surrender control so easily.

“Not yet,” he growls, his voice rough with restraint. “I’m the first and last man to own this body, and I intend to take my time.”

Aurora trembles beneath him, anticipation coiling tight in her belly. She wants to fight him for dominance, to tease him as he has teased her, but the way he looks at her—like she is his world, his ruin—leaves her breathless.

He trails kisses down her throat, slow and deliberate, tasting every inch of skin he can reach. “Such a greedy little thing,” he murmurs against her collarbone. “I’ve waited too long to claim you, piccina.”

Her fingers sink into his hair as he moves lower, tracing the delicate lace of her bodysuit. With one sharp tug, the fastening snaps, the fabric parting to reveal more of her to him.

Lucian sucks in a sharp breath, his grip tightening on her thighs. “Mine,” he rasps, as if the word alone could bind her to him.

Aurora gasps, her body burning under his touch, his lips, his whispered reverence. The rest of the world fades away, leaving only them—two souls colliding, unraveling, surrendering.

And she wouldn’t have it any other way.

---