Page 11 of Dario DeLuca

“You know better than to ask me anything about wedding colors. Where’s Angelo? Why didn’t he help you? It is his wedding, after all.”

“He was useless,” she quips, and I can almost hear her rolling her eyes. “He thinks taupe is a type of fish.”

Her laugh, light and carefree, trickles through the line. I stifle a chuckle, never letting it reach my lips. Her fiancé is a good man—a rarity in our world, untouched by the shadows we grew up in. But he’s good for her and keeps her happy.

Knowing she’s found someone who pulls her into the light warms my chest. I imagine her big day, where she exchanges vows under the sun, untainted. Unlike our parents’ union and now my own—arranged marriages like pawns on a chessboard—hers is a choice made from love.

She deserves that.

A pause stretches between us, the silence a thin thread ready to snap. I can almost see her in that sun-drenched kitchen of our childhood, hands braced on the marble countertop, waiting.

“Are you coming to Italy? You better not stand me up, Dario.”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” I assure her with a firmness I don’t entirely feel. The responsibility rests on my shoulders. The honor of walking her down the aisle is now mine. She’s the last scrap of innocence in our bloodstained family portrait, and it’s a big cross to bear, but I’ll guard that with my life.

There’s no way I’d miss it. Then I glance down at the stack of pictures before me, and suddenly, I’m reminded of the deal with the mayor. I should have plenty of time to fly to Italy before the campaign.

“Good.” She sighs.

I shift and lean back in my chair. “Plus, that means you’ll owe me one.”

Her laughter tinkles, but confusion edges in. “Owe you? For what?”

“Best man duties,” I toss out, casual as a stray bullet. Sliding open my drawer, I take out her wedding invitation, my thumb brushing along the edges of the thick cardstock.

“Scusa?”Excuse me?Carmela’s tone sharpens, Italian slipping through, a sign she’s caught off balance. “Your best man?”

I steer the conversation away, reaching for safer ground. “How’s Ma doing?”

But she’s relentless, my sister, won’t let me evade so easily.

"Non cambiare argomento,” she chastises.Don’t change the subject.“What are you talking about?”

“Nothing, just—” A deep breath, and I’m wading into murkier waters. I know she will flip out, knowing I’m marrying someone before she can vet them. “I’ve got my own… arrangement to consider.”

“Arrangement?” The question is a soft prod. “You’re getting married?”

“Yes.”

“To whom? Do we know her? Is she Italian?”

“No. She’s the daughter of the mayor here.”

“Stop being so cryptic and spill it. I know Rafael has the line encrypted, so you can stop tiptoeing around it.”

“It’s a business deal. Her father and I have an agreement. With her at my side, I’m running for a city council seat.”

“You forced his hand, didn’t you?”

“I only seized an opportunity. Besides, you can thank our father for putting him in my path. Apparently, dear old Dad owed him a favor, and I need to be on that council.”

“Politics…” Disapproval weighs down her tone.

“Yes.” That’s all I’m willing to tell her over the phone. She’s not clueless about the family business, but we try to keep her and my mother as far away from it as possible. It’s why our father left her and mother behind when he brought me to the States allthose years ago. So he could groom me for my place in line while shielding them from it all.

He’d tell me that women are precious and worthy of protection at all times. If he’d brought them with us, they’d be in harm’s way and could be used as a liability to get to us. They’d visit every once in a while, but never for long.

“Well, whatever it is, be careful. I stay out of what you do, but I trust you know what you’re doing. But stay vigilant. If the mayor was in bed with our father, he’s no saint, Dario. Don’t forget that.”

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