Page 36 of Dario DeLuca

He thursts, picking up speed until we're moving as one. Soon, pleasure crashes over me again, a tidal wave that obliterates all else.

With one last powerful thrust, Dario's eyes roll back in his head, and he releases himself into me while letting out the loudest groan I’ve ever heard from a man. It's primal, raw—truly animalistic.

Our gazes lock once more before he pulls out of me and backs away. Not knowing what to say or do, I pull my shorts back up and head toward the door. Dario opens a cabinet and hands me a black box with a red ribbon. I open it and find a new phone inside.

“There are numbers preprogrammed that you are cleared to call. If the number is not on the phone, you can’t call it. Your internet usage is restricted to your social sites only.”

Control.

That is all this man is about. He rules based on fear. But I’m not afraid of him.

“You can never touch me again,” I remark with venom on my tongue.

“Don’t worry, Princessa. Like I told you before, you’ll beg me to fuck you.”

FIFTEEN

DARIO

The city pulseslike a living thing, and I'm its beating heart as I step out of the black SUV. Chicago wraps around me with a lover’s grip—tight, demanding, and impossible to ignore. The deafening sound of honking horns and the murmur of pedestrians blend into a symphony that's both abrasive and familiar. My boots hit the pavement, and it feels like stepping onto a battlefield for a moment.

A swarm engulfs me instantly—campaign staff buzzing with nervous energy, photographers with their hungry lenses, citizens craning necks for a glimpse of the man who casts a shadow over this city.

Someone once whispered 'Mafia' as though it was my surname, but today, they're eager to shake the hand of the politician who promises them salvation from the very darkness they associate me with.

"Mr. DeLuca, right this way," one staffer urges.

I nod, scanning faces that blur into one another—a sea of expectations and skepticism.

I move with them, through them, their eagerness, a tangible force pushing against the weight of my thoughts. The angst forwhat I've left behind coils in my gut—Mia, her image a constant flicker in the periphery of my vision.

We reach the community center Mia, and her father will open soon. What better place for a rally than in front of the building you helped create? It’s not open yet, but fencing and yellow tape surround it.

Its facade is a mural of hope painted in vibrant colors that clash with the steel gray of my world. Residents of varied ages gather to shake my hand.

"Thank you for being here," an old woman tells me, her eyes alight with something fierce and hopeful.

Flashes from cameras steal fragments of time, freeze-framing this dance of politics and power. As the crowd cheers, my mind rebels, pulling me back to the gym where sweat glistened on Mia's skin, where each gasp and moan etched itself into my memory. Her body, a landscape I explored with a conqueror's claim, tightened around me, her strength matching mine thrust for thrust.

"Your support means everything," I say to a young man whose gaze holds questions I don't have answers to. His handshake is firm, his story etched in the worry lines on his brow. He speaks of change, of belief—and I find myself envying his faith.

Each flash of the cameras is a jolt, a call to return to the present where Mia does not exist. But even now, her scent lingers in my senses, sweet and intoxicating. It's a bitter pang of longing, coupled with the rush of remembering how she yields to me and challenges me in the same breath.

"Mr. DeLuca," a photographer calls, beckoning me closer to a group of children playing in front of the center. Their laughter is a balm, a reminder of what's at stake in this concrete jungle.

"Make sure to get my good side," I quip, the corners of my mouth tilting upward in a practiced smile. With each handshake,each nod of understanding, the thoughts of Mia persist—a persistent whisper against the clamor of the campaign.

"Chicago needs you," a man says, his eyes earnest behind thick-rimmed glasses. "You can make a difference."

"Change is coming," I assure him, my voice a low rumble of conviction. And as I speak, I believe it—not just for the city but for me—for us, for Mia. She'd scoff at the idea of needing protection, yet there's nothing I wouldn't do to shield her from the world we inhabit.

"Let's take five," one of my aides suggests, handing me a water bottle. The droplets condense on the surface, a cool contrast to the heat of the throng. I take a long drink, the liquid a poor substitute for the respite I crave.

"Can't stop now," I counter, capping the bottle. The fight is here, amidst these people and in the quiet spaces where only Mia and I exist. Every beat of this city, every moment under the public eye, is a step toward a future I'm determined to shape with her by my side. It doesn’t matter that she was forced to be there; she’s there nonetheless.

"More photos, Mr. DeLuca," another aide prompts, and I follow. Each step is a battle, each photo a victory, all while Mia’s phantom presence hovers just out of reach, guiding and haunting me in equal measure.

All it took was one taste, and now this woman has consumed my thoughts, every other interaction muted by the memory of her. It’s torture how badly she affects me.

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