Page 42 of Dario DeLuca

I finally help her to her feet, and she’s still sticky with our juices. Mia quietly pulls herself together, disdain replacing the ecstasy she wore like a badge only a second ago. She doesn’t look at me, shame staining her perfect face. She hates that she’s given in not once but twice, and I bet she despises that more than she does me.

Once again, the charade continues, back to the days when this was merely an arrangement.

“Starting tomorrow, you’ll join me at some campaign stops, and you can do what you need for the community center. I know how important that is for you,” I say while buttoning my pants.

“Fine.” Mia glares at me and adjusts the straps on her shoulder.

Without another word, I exit the room, leaving behind the stench of sex and scattered books. I head down to my study, where I pour myself a glass of whiskey. Her scent still lingers on my fingers as I bring it to my lips and take a swig—damn woman. Mia was supposed to be an easy conquest—a pawn in the game of power and politics, but she lights a fire in me unlike any other woman before her—and Christ knows there have been many.

EIGHTEEN

MIA

I slamthe cell phone down, my heart pounding. Another vendor is bailing at the last minute. Sticky notes and color-coded binders litter the table. There are two days until the community center’s grand opening, and everything's unraveling.

"Dario," I call his name, needing to plead my case.

All the restrictions he has around making calls and running my business the way I usually would is making it hard as hell to get anything done.

He strolls in, his gaze roaming my frazzled state, taking in my hair in a messy bun and yoga pants stained with ink; he lifts a brow. Almost as if seeing me disheveled makes him happy. You know how when you really like a person, every little quirk of theirs is cute and brings a smile to your face? Yeah, well, that’s how he’s looking at me right now, and I hate that I’m so keenly aware of that.

Why does he have to be so damn sexy? Making sticking to my guns on hating him harder and harder.

"What's wrong, tesoro?" he says, his voice irritatingly smooth.

"‘What's wrong’?" I gesture wildly at the storm that is my makeshift office, forcing myself to get the smoothness of his voice out of my head. "The caterer dropped out…for my mixer.”

Picking up the notepad, I aggressively scribble out the name and toss the pad back onto the table.

“The floral arrangements were canceled due to a mix-up with their supplier,” I continue, with a frustrated wave of my arms. “And the student performances I booked? Their parents just pulled them because of some bullshit liability concern."

Dario's jaw tics, but he maintains that unruffled demeanor maddeningly well. "Seems like you need help."

"No shit, Sherlock." I rake my hands through my curls. "You know. Maybe if I could make calls without worrying about being tracked…"

"You know why that's necessary,” he emphasizes, cutting me off and asserting his authority again.

And typically, I would fight back, but with everything for my influencer event going to shit, I don’t have the energy. So, instead of dishing out some smart remark, I nod, forcing a breath. Besides, I already know his response—it’s all for my protection, something he’s been super focused on since our meeting. But the last time he updated me, there was no longer a threat, so why the hell does it still feel like we’re running for our lives?

"Relax, Bella.” Dario pushes off the doorframe. “I'll handle this," he says, already striding away.

And once again, all my worries seem to roll off that broad back of his.

Dario…always to the rescue, is what I want to say, but instead, I respond, “Thanks.”

Then, just like that, I’m alone again as he gives me his back on the way out of my room. He’ll take care of that, but a million other loose ends are slipping through my fingers.

I scour through my lists and cross reference for rush fees and availability. Most of these vendors need a twenty-four-hour notice, but I need a miracle because I only have two hours to pull this off, or it goes to shit.

"Hey, Mia.” Evelyn greets me with a smile, catching me by surprise. “Dario sent for me. Said something about you needing some help for tonight. Well, more like insisting that I take care of the preparations."

There’s slight laughter in her voice. I know she meant it as a joke. From what I can tell and what she’s done for Dario’s campaign, she enjoys working for him. At least one of us is happy to be tied to that man in some form.

A sense of relief washes over me, and I quickly pull her in for a hug. "You're a lifesaver."

I don’t care how or why she’s here to help, just that she’s here. With little instruction, Evelyn flits about with quiet efficiency, making calls, juggling agendas, and problem-solving left and right. It’s pretty dope to see. I've never seen someone command respect so effortlessly,

And she doesn’t have to strong-arm a person to do it.

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