Page 3 of Dario DeLuca

“Cousin. What do I owe this pleasure?”

Rafael unlocks the G-Wagon, the chirp ricocheting off the red brick of the mayor’s home. I climb into the passenger seat while Rafael claims the driver’s side.

“The plan is in motion. City council is within reach,” I share as the door slams shut.

“That’s what I like to hear. Hit me with the deets.”

“Bet.”

We pull off at the same time as a matte grey SL 43 Roadster glides into the circular drive. There she is—Mia, wrapped in sunlight and innocence, her deep brown eyes wide with laughter, unaware of the storm about to break over her head. Her friend steps out first, and then she follows suit, her full lips curved in a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes, hinting at a depth, a resilience that beckons me.

Something akin to hunger stirs in my chest, a craving for the fire she hides beneath her skin. The game is set, pieces moving on a board larger than she knows.

TWO

MIA

The gold-flecked ballroomof the Ritz-Carlton unfurls before me, a sea of tailored suits and silk dresses twirling in a dance of power and ambition. My father stands at the front of the room, his voice infused with an unshakeable conviction as he announces Dario’s ascent into politics.

“That is why I support and endorse Dario DeLuca for city council position five.”

The crowd meets his announcement with thunderous applause and cheers. Flashes of light from the cameras bounce off the two men as they hold their joined hands up in a victory formation as if he’s already won. I stare at my father standing next to the man he’s randomly decided to endorse, his dark brown complexion and chocolate eyes a mirror to my own. There’s something in them I haven’t seen before, and it’s left me more than curious.

“Can you believe this?” Gabrielle’s whisper is a feather against my conscience, her wide eyes reflecting the grandeur that swallows us whole. "Your dad and Dario DeLuca? That’s a plot twist I didn’t see coming.”

“Psh, who you tellin’? One minute, we’re talking about the grand opening of the new community center in a few months.And the next, I’m being told we must pull this nearly impossible campaign launch party off without a single hiccup.”

“Isn’t it rumored he’s part of the mob or something?” Gabrielle asks.

“Rumored but no proof. Remember, some people tried to say he got the contract for the building of the new center under some shady shit, and I shut that down on my blog.”

“That’s right. Well, the campaign certainly looks like it has been planned for months. Maybe they’ve been working on this for a while.”

“What can I say? My dad uses his power to make things happen.”

“And he does it without any controversy,” Gabrielle adds.

I nod, my fingers tracing the stem of my champagne flute as if it holds secrets to the sudden alliance. “Well, he’s in the middle of his third term, and the people obviously love him.”

“Now, everyone, enjoy this evening. Dario will be around to address any questions as he walks through the hall.” My father closes the announcement, and they step off the stage to mingle amongst the supporters.

We walk toward the hors d’oeuvres station to refill our glasses and eat crab puffs to ease our hunger.

“I just wonder when DeLuca had political aspirations. His construction business is so lucrative, and there was never any buzz around the blogs,” I mention as we move around, smiling at the guests and keeping each other company.

A man’s shoulder brushes mine, a polite intrusion in the waltz of the elite.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, his eyes a familiar shade of midnight sky.

Our gazes lock for a fleeting moment before he slips away into the throng of social climbers–his apology lost amidst the string quartet crescendo.

“Looks like you’re already making friends.” Gabrielle teases with a playful nudge, but her laughter fades as my father approaches.

“What are you two whispering about? You know gossip looks bad in the eyes of the public.”

“Dad, we’re not gossiping. Gabrielle is just being silly as usual.”

He pulls me in for a quick hug before refocusing on why he traipsed this way.

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