Page 17 of Dario DeLuca

I push down my feelings of resentment as we drive for hours. The city's chaos turns into quiet mountains and winding roads. Finally, we reach the gates of my estate, which open at the press of a button. We turn into the long drive and through the steel gates. Mia’s gaze turns to the mansion rising before us.

“So the rumors are true? Youarein the mob, and my father has been involved with you?” Her voice trembles.

I let the moment stretch—a tightrope walk between truth and a lie for the sake of her relationship with her father. Their bond has already cracked with all the secrets, and now this. I saw it in her eyes when he told her she was to be my wife. So, do I admit to my bride-to-be the legacy my family holds or protect her innocence a bit longer?

But it was all the lies and secrets that got us here.

“Answer me.”

The command in her voice scrapes my resolve.

I look at her,reallylook at her, seeing the heart of the woman who dares to challenge me. She’s strong, and something tells me she can handle anything that comes her way.

Truth it is.

“I run it.” My admission is a crossing into the unfathomable depth of the life I lead—one she’s now entwined with, whether she wishes it or not.

EIGHT

MIA

The sleek blackSUV stops abruptly, and the engine's hum dies, jerking me back to reality, a reality I'm not ready to face. My heart hammers against my ribcage, each beat a reminder of the precipice I'm teetering on.

The world outside my window morphs into an exclusive surreal painting of luxury and excess. Dario's mansion emerges, its modern lines and vast windows a silent testament to his world—a world I'm still grappling with.

The door on his side opens with a soft but firmclick,followed by the constantdingof the open door alert, marking our transition from motion to stillness. Dario exits the car in a fluid motion. I shut the door behind him with a soft thud, a sound that somehow signifies the beginning of an inevitable confrontation.

When the alert stops, it leaves behind an almost palpable silence.

His footsteps on the gravel are barely audible, just a whisper on the driveway. Yet my apprehension increases with each step that resonates like a drumbeat in my chest.

I watch him through the window, the glass a cold barrier that does little to mask the intensity of his approach. His movements are graceful, yet there's a tension in how he carries himself—with a predator's grace, controlled and precise. The ambient light casts shadows across his features, softening the hard lines of determination on his face. His gaze is fixed, not on the path ahead, but on the car—on me, as if he could peel back the layers of metal and glass with sheer willpower.

As he rounds the car to my side, the anticipation tightens around my heart like a vice. It's not just his physical presence that overwhelms me–it's the sheer force of his personality, the unspoken power dynamic that swirls around him like a cloak.

My door swings open with a grace that contradicts the storm brewing in his eyes—a storm I unwittingly unleashed with my defiance. My heart stutters, caught in the aftermath of the kiss he planted earlier, a kiss that was both an assertion and a question, leaving chaos swirling within me.

"Come," he says, but it's not a request. From what I can tell, it never is with him.

I recoil, pulling my hand back as if burnt. I dart my gaze from his outstretched palm to the mansion looming before us, a fortress of stone and secrets. I can’t surrender—not now, not to him.

"Please," I whisper, the single word hanging between us, a feeble attempt at resistance. But it's as if he doesn't hear me, or perhaps he chooses not to.

The scent of wealth and danger mingles in the air, his breath hot on my neck as he leans over. His hand—a map of inked stories and unspoken threats—reaches past me with a grace that belies his frustration, his fingers invading the space around me. Theclickof the seatbelt feels like the final verdict of my fading autonomy.

"Move," he commands.

But my body rebels, anchored in place by fear and disrespect. I plant my feet firmly on the car floor, refusing to budge.

Dario sighs. It’s a low sound laced with impatience. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t argue. He moves quickly, each motion deliberate and smooth. Muscles tense beneath the delicate fabric of Dario's suit as he reaches for me—patience wearing thin, an apex predator poised to claim what he deems his.

My heel scrapes against the leather seat, a stubborn anchor against his insistence, yet I'm hoisted over his shoulder in one swift motion.

His shoulder presses into my abdomen, firm and unrelenting. The sensation of his body—a tapestry of muscle and sinew—against mine sends an involuntary shiver down my spine.

The chill of the wind bites at my exposed skin as we move. Each step he takes resonates with power, the kind that whispers threats and promises in the same breath. I'm an unwilling participant in this dance, my hands beating against his back, a futile attempt at revolution.

"Let me go," I demand. My voice comes out muffled against his jacket.

---