Page 19 of Dario DeLuca

The cascade of water becomes a baptism, each droplet like a liquid whisper attempting to wash away the filth of the day's events. And no matter how scalding the water is, it won’t cleanse the soul and cannot erase the images etched behind closed eyelids.

But I scrub anyway, my fingers working to erase it all away. Fighting to reclaim a semblance of the woman who woke this morning unaware of how closely violence clung to her shadow.

The soap glides over my skin, and water swirls down the drain, carrying with it flecks of red. I close my eyes, let the water run rivulets down my back, and there it is—the ghost of his kiss, haunting the corners of my mind.

Ownership was etched in a moment of heat and dominance seared onto my lips. And though I tell myself I am not his to possess, the echo of that kiss courses through me, a relentless tide that threatens to sweep away my resolve.

In his world, protection comes at the cost of freedom, care is laced with control, and safety is indistinguishable from captivity.

This man, this force of nature who has swept into my life like a tornado, challenges everything I thought I knew about strength and vulnerability. Nothing is the same. My life is no longer mine. The rose-colored glasses I wore are now tinted black, and the image I had of my father changed forever.

I don’t know anything anymore, but I won’t go along with their plan without a fight. He may have killed someone for me, but he killed them nonetheless, and for that, there’s no way anyone can convince me that he’s my safest option.

I shut off the shower, the sudden silence deafening. Wrapping myself in a plush towel, I confront my reflection once more. The blood may wash off, but the stain on my soul will linger.

NINE

DARIO

"You’re a hot commodity,"Evelyn, the blonde we hired to manage my campaign, muses with a hint of rouge on her cheeks as she leans forward, "I haven’t seen numbers like this in like — ever. Especially not for a brand-new candidate with no prior political background. And for the seat to open up so abruptly. The big man up high must have been looking out for you.”

She stares at me, a smile teetering on her lips, and I can tell she finds herself amusing. If only she knew the lengths we’ve gone through to make this campaign happen. Losing isn’t an option. She’s just here to make it look legit. We can’t have the citizens of Chicago knowing they voted a Mafia leader onto their beloved council.

Rafael glances at me. We know why the seat is open, don’t we? It was a meticulous game. One piece strategically removed—the councilman now silent forever.

“It was a heart attack, they said,” I add.

“Yes, and he was so young, too. Sad indeed.” She reaches out, her finger tracing the route on the map, the campaign itinerary sprawling before us like a promise. "We've got to hit these neighborhoods hard if you want to bring home this election. You have the younger vote, and I’m sure you can thank yourwork constructing the community center for that. The school donations certainly help as well. But it’s the older generations that will be the toughest to sway. Once they have their favorite politician, there is usually no changing their minds.”

I nod, watching as she traces a finger over the map, the lines crisscrossing through districts like veins.This city will pulse with my influence, or not at all.

“What do you have in mind?”

“Well,” Evelyn leans closer, only a hair’s breadth away from me. Her tone dips into something softer, more intimate, as if she's forgotten the nature of our relationship—that of employer and employee, nothing more. “Mr. DeLuca. What’s your plan for?—”

Crack!

Suddenly, the world tilts on its axis. A racket erupts from beyond the oak-paneled doors. A piercing shriek and the sound of glass shattering assaults my senses.

Instinct kicks in, and guns materialize in hands with the swiftness of magicians revealing their final trick. I push my chair back, the wheels rolling over the carpet. Removing my weapon from behind my back, I round the desk.

“Oh my goodness,” Evelyn yelps when she sees all the firearms that are no longer concealed.

Stepping around everyone, I open the door and charge into the hall, my gun cocked and ready.

My first thought is Mia and getting to her to keep her safe, but the moment my eyes land on her, I relax a little. My grip on the gun loosens, and with a deep sigh, I uncock the gun and tip the barrel to signal to Rafael and the others that everything is okay.

Her voice hits me first, a rush of angry curses disrupting the calm. There’s no danger, just Mia, furious and loud, her voice burning my ears.

“Open the damn door,” Mia orders.

She stands there, visibly upset–my reluctant bride-to-be–her body a temperamental dance of anger and mutiny. Each curse word that spills from her lips is a strike against the poised image she portrays to the world.

“Is everything all right?” I hear Evelyn’s voice, but I don’t turn to answer her.

I watch as Vivian, my housekeeper, attempts to calm the woman I’m bound to marry. Poor woman, she’s undoubtedly earning her salary having to deal with Mia’s displaced attitude.

“Ms. Gordon, please, that’s very expensive,” the housekeeper says softly while waving her hands in anticipation of catching the eighteen thousand-dollar vase as soon as it leaves Mia’s grasp.

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