Page 18 of Dario DeLuca

When we walk up the stairs, the doors open as if on cue, swallowing us into its vastness. The air shifts, now cooler and laced with the fragrance of luxury and mystery pervading Dario's home. The door closes with a softclickfollowed by a series of mechanical whirs, the sound of pneumatic locks engaging, a chilling reminder my freedom is now at the mercy of a man whose hands are stained with more than just power.

He sets me back on my feet, and I pivot on my heel, shifting my eyes towards the grand staircase and then around the room in search of any hint of an exit, any escape from this cage.

My breath catches as I lunge for the door, but it’s useless. The door seems to be locked from the outside.

"Miss Gordon," a voice cuts through the heavy air, soft yet unyielding.

A woman, whom I assume is part of his staff, stands between me and my fleeting hope, her face impassive.

"The doors require a code for both entry and exit." Her words drop like shackles around my ankles, the weight of their implication anchoring me to the spot.

"Settle down," she suggests, not unkindly, but the undercurrent of authority in her tone is unmistakable. It's clear—these walls aren't just here to keep others out but to keep me in.

I turn, facing him, the architect of my captivity.

"Dario DeLuca," I articulate each syllable, ensuring my voice doesn't tremble with the fear that snakes through my veins. "You can't keep me here."

He remains still, carved from stone, his eyes reflecting a storm of dark seas. He steps forward, close enough I can feel the heat emanating from his body and smell the faintest hint of citrus on his skin.

"Today," he begins, his voice a low rumble, "your life hung by a thread so thin, it would've snapped if not for my intervention." His fingers lift, grazing the sleeve of my shirt. The fabric feels heavy, clinging to my skin like a shroud. "This is why you cannot leave."

I jerk away to avoid him touching me when I catch a glimpse of myself through the mirror hanging on his wall. There it is, a crimson blossom staining my shirt. It taunts me, reminding me of the violence I witnessed only a couple of hours ago.

My heart stutters, and my breath catches. It's real—the blood, the violence, the irrevocable step into darkness. And it's on me.

I panic, my hands moving with a mind of their own as I slap and tug at the fabric in an attempt to get the blood off me.

“Bella.” Dario reaches for me, placing a palm on either shoulder to calm me. “Mia, relax. Breathe.”

“Oh my god. Get it off of me. Please”

“Mia,” Dario’s voice is stern yet surprisingly soothing. “Relax. Breathe.”

I try to do as told, my breaths still erratic. How is he so still? I watched him murder someone–for me. Why is he acting like it’s just a typical day in life?

"Look," he commands, his hand guiding mine to touch the stain.

"Look at it, Mia," Dario’s voice is soft yet firm. "This is the cost of your safety–the price of not taking the threat seriously."

“You mean the price of dealing with the Mafia. That’s what you are, right? Some Mafia leader?”

“Yes,” is all he says. There is no hesitation or giving it to me easily. He’s the head of a crime organization, and my father has pretty much sold my soul to the Devil.

His words are a labyrinth, each leading deeper into the truth I refuse to accept. I can't escape the influence of his world, as its troubles become part of mine. I breathe shallowly, finding the air thick and hard to inhale.

"Understand, Bella, you're not just someone I saved—you're under my protection now." Dario's declaration is absolute, his vow binding us together in a twisted fate.

The sight of blood grounds me in this harsh truth. And I know the violence he committed in my name will haunt my thoughts forever.

"Clean her up," he orders, a baritone rumble that seems to reverberate off the marble floors and rich tapestries adorning the walls.

"Come," she murmurs, guiding me with a light touch on my elbow. She steers me away from the gallery of ancient eyes—portraits of stern ancestors—that seem to judge my every move.

The woman with eyes that hold stories never spoken approaches me. Her hands are steady and unassuming as sheuses cotton balls soaked in peroxide to clean the splatters of blood from my face. Each touch feels conflicting—comforting yet invasive at the same time.

The bathroom is a sanctuary of white Carrara marble and gleaming chrome, insulated from the world outside. She turns on the shower, steam billowing like a soft, warm fog, clouding the reflection of my haunted gaze in the mirror.

"Use these," she gestures to the array of toiletries, no doubt chosen for their calming scents and promises of purity. "They will help."

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