Page 1 of Dario DeLuca

ONE

DARIO

Leather creaks beneath me.

It's a familiar chorus in an office such as this, where power dresses itself in the guise of governance. Even at home, the uniform is the same: privilege and prestige.

“Your guests are waiting in your office, sir,” the shrill voice of the kind older woman who escorted us here echoes through the hall.

Rafael, my right-hand man and younger cousin, glances at me. “Do you know what this is about?”

“Thank you, Linda, I’ll take it from here,” someone says in a deep voice just as the office door inches open and enters Marcus Gordon.

The air is thick with the musk of old books and the faintest hint of fear—but fear of what?

“I guess we’ll find out soon enough,” I say to Rafael as the man closes the door and crosses the room until he’s behind his massive desk.

We watch as he pulls open the side drawer. He takes an exaggerated breath with his hand lingering on whatever’s inside. Now more curious than before we arrived, I study his features. It’s not every day a man of my status receives an invitation to themayor’s home. And when you’re in my line of business, you get good at reading people, their body language, and emotions, and right now, he’s sweating like a hooker in church.

The mayor, a man whose heart beats to the rhythm of campaign slogans and who is revered as the pillar of our beloved city, is running scared. I’m dying to know why. Whatever it is must go against the laws he protects because he’s requested me, the capo of the Chicago territory. Legitimate business doesn’t require the privacy of his home office.

“Mayor Gordon, do you mind telling us what this meeting is about?”

Without a word, he palms an envelope onto the cherrywood desk between us. The slap of paper on wood jolts like a gunshot in the silence, echoing off the high ceiling.

“Something important?” My lips curl into a smirk, eyes never leaving his.

He doesn’t answer, but the crease in his brow deepens, a crack in his well-rehearsed façade. I reach out, fingers brushing the envelope.

With a flick, I break the seal. My curiosity is piqued, not by the act itself but by its implications. Photographs spill into my hand, glossy and cold as the eyes of the men I’ve laid to rest. I shuffle through them, pictures of Mia captured in moments she believes herself unobserved—a laugh here, a contemplative gaze there—each snapshot an unwanted intimacy. She’s unaware of the lens, the observer, the predator—an amateur stalking her with a camera’s click instead of a trigger’s pull.

“Someone’s got a keen interest in your girl,” I muse, my voice a low hum.

The mayor shifts, his discomfort tangible as he leans forward, a shadow passing over his features. “I need your help.”

“Why should I make this my problem?” I lean back and register each detail, every quiver in his voice. Power has a scent–a taste, and it reeks of desperation right now.

That’s precisely what I’m counting on. Little does he know, he’s falling right into my hands. We’ve been planning a way to strengthen our grasp on the city for months, and he just hand-delivered the keys to the proverbial kingdom.

He produces a note, edges frayed and unfolded with reluctance. Rafael takes it from him while I examine his daughter’s pictures.

Whoever shot these has a marksman’s eye. Some are so close and clear that I can see even the slightest imperfection. They’re few and far between with her beautiful mahogany skin, but there nonetheless.

“You should see this,” Rafael taps my arm.

I accept the page, letting the pictures fall into my lap. The script dances before my eyes, taunting, a serenade of danger in looping letters.

I know what you did. Now, your precious daughter is going to face a similar fate.

I stare at the mayor with worry lines etched into his features. The words, this note, are a mirror reflecting something dark and twisted beneath the mayor’s tailored suit and polished veneer. Now we know what he’s afraid of.

Secrets.

We all have them, and someone is threatening to air his.

“Seems like there’s more to our mayor than what meets the eye.” I let the words hang, hollow as the chasm between truth and the lies we tell ourselves.

My attention swivels to Rafael, his smirk a shared sentiment.

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