Page 14 of Dario DeLuca

A suffocatingtension clings to the walls of my childhood home, one filled with conflict. I slip out and close the door quietly behind me.

The evening air feels cool on my cheeks as I quickly walk away from the ongoing argument.

I toss my bag onto the back seat and climb into my car, pushing the button to start the engine. After shifting the gear to drive, I pull out of the circular drive and head to my destination, my restful haven for the night. I had plans for tomorrow involving the opening of the community center my dad and I worked so hard to get open for our charity, but this shit is a big stumbling block. I hope Gabby and I can figure a way out of this arrangement.

The streets are like a maze, keeping me trapped in a life I didn't choose. I move through the shadows, avoiding streetlights where someone might recognize me. My heart beats fast, and the sound keeps me company as I hurry to my best friend's house.

The gas light illuminates on my dashboard.

“Fuck!”

In the haste of getting away from my father, I forgot I hadn’t taken care of the weekly maintenance I perform on my car. Notone to chance it, I drive to the nearest station. It’s just as well, I need something a little stronger than water to drink tonight, and wine will not do. I use my GPS for the nearest station and follow the spoken directions.

I pull into the gas station, the digital numbers on the pump glowing in the darkness. My mind is still buzzing from the evening's events, a cacophony of contorted faces and raised voices blending into the energized atmosphere. I need a moment, just a sliver of silence, before heading to Gabby’s.

I step out of my car, the scent of gasoline sharp in my nostrils, and head inside to pay. Not wanting to waste this trip, I grab a few snacks for our late-night venting session and, as I promised myself, a bottle of anything stronger than fermented grapes.

My fingers graze along the variety of liquors ranging from gin to whiskey. Then my gaze lands on my favorite, Uncle Tito. I grab two bottles from the cooler and head to the counter. A campaign commercial comes on the television behind the clerk, and it catches my attention.

Dario DeLuca’s face in five-second frames as the ad moves along. As I watch his campaign ads flash across the screen, it hits me—it’s only been three nights since he announced his run for the city seat, and already he's everywhere, his popularity surging by twenty percent.

Now, with my newfound insight into how he operates, I can't help but wonder if he's bought his way up the ranks, each step paid for in more than promises and handshakes. His voice, overlaying the images, speaks of enforcing change in his district and highlighting various construction projects.

What it doesn’t do is talk about how he made a shady-ass deal with my father, the mayor, and now I am to be his bride. Who said I even want to get married? Now, I’m forced into a union and have no say in the matter.

“Ms. Did you need anything else?” The clerk's voice reminds me my attention is needed.

“Oh. I’m sorry. I zoned out watching that commercial.”

“Yeah, it is crazy how Dario is now running for city council when, just a few weeks ago, he helped rebuild a few houses in my neighborhood. He’s a good guy. Never discussed or even mentioned politics. Your total is forty-four seventy-seven.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I need thirty on pump three, please.”

“Okay, seventy-four seventy-seven.”

I swipe my debit card and enter my pin to complete my purchase. The clerk passes me my receipt.

“Thank you,” I mutter. Grabbing my bag of goodies and comfort, I walk toward the door. A chime on my phone catches my attention, stopping me just shy of the threshold.

Gabby: Where are you?

Me: I forgot to do my weekly car care. Be there in twenty—grabbed provisions for the night.

Gabby: Okay. See you soon.

My eyes are cast downward onto my phone as I exit. The door chimes a farewell that goes unnoticed, my thoughts a million miles away. But then, a collision, a brief contact that jolts me back to reality. I glance up, eyes meeting those of a man I vaguely recognize from the party.

"Sorry," escapes my lips, an automatic response to the unintentional bump.

His nod is curt and dismissive, and I turn away, eager to put distance between us.

The moment I turn my back to him, the air shifts and danger prickles the back of my neck. Before I can react, his hands are on me, dragging me toward the shadowed side of the building.

I drop my bag, the bottle of Tito’s shattering and leaking everywhere. The scent now blends in with that of the gas. All I can see is my destination becoming smaller in the distance as he pulls me away. Panic surges, and adrenaline floods my system. I fight, nails finding skin, teeth clamping down on flesh when he tries to cover my mouth with his hand. The salty taste of skin blends with my tears.

"Bitch," he spits.

I wrench free, heart pounding, and start running, desperate for the safety of light.

---