Page 55 of Dario DeLuca

I enter the guest room and find her curled up on the built-in bench, staring out the window, wrapped in blankets. Even unkempt, with dark circles marring the delicate skin beneath her eyes, she is ethereal—an angel fallen to the pits of Hell.

"Bella," I murmur, the endearment slipping unbidden from my lips.

Mia turns her head to look at me, her eyes hooded and red. She’s been crying, and I hate seeing her like this. When I offer her my hand, I expect her to fight me, but she doesn’t or hurls the expected barbs laced with fire. This passivity unsettles me more than her typical defiance. My strong-willed, passionate warrior has been dimmed, and the sight carves a hollow ache in my chest.

She takes my hand, her fingers slight yet holding firm as I lead her from the room and through the opulent halls of my home. Tapestries and austere portraits line the walls, witnessesto generations of Carmine DeLuca's legacy, both triumphant and damned. I hurry past them, eager to escape the weight of my family's heritage, if only for a moment.

The house is bustling with workers as we prepare for Carmela’s big day. I immediately understood why Mia hauled herself into her room the moment the quiet of the halls was replaced by noise—voices, sounds, and music all rotating at a deafening volume. Or maybe it’s the tight squeeze of her hand as people shuffle past us that tells me she’d rather return to her solitude.

At last, the sprawling grounds greet us, the sweet perfume of lemon blossoms and cypress trees carrying the warm breeze. I halt our steps, tugging Mia to face me.

"Where are we going?" she asks, sweeping loose tendrils from her face with surprising calm.

"To let out your frustrations, tesoro."

For once, she voices no protest as I guide us across the courtyard. The only sounds are our footfalls crunching over the gravel path and the distant trill of songbirds. Her silence disquiets me; this is not my Mia, the passionate force that both enthralls and infuriates me.

This is someone else entirely—a shell of the woman I’ve grown to care for.

We reach the secluded hillside where the gun range is nestled among towering pines and fragrant shrubbery. Their earthy incense floods my senses, momentarily grounding me as I steal a glance at my bride.

Even in her saddened and distraught state, she is achingly beautiful. I want nothing more than to hold her and shield her from everything.

For a fleeting moment, she catches me staring. Heat rushes through me, and I have to look away to keep my mind fromgetting the best of me. Now isn't the time to be thinking about how sexy she is. Mia’s emotions are still raw from the attack.

I brought her here to shelter her, not torment her further with my selfish cravings. Still, I cannot ignore how my body thrums with the consciousness of being near her.

We approach the building that houses the gun range, its solid concrete walls exuding an air of solemn purpose. The door creaks when I push it open, and from the lack of gunpowder in the air, I know it’s been a while since anyone has been out here. Decades, maybe, considering that I moved to the States with my father twenty-five years ago.

With us gone, mother and sister had no real reason to use it. They’re both well-trained in weaponry—it’s standard in our family—everyone learns how to break down, clean, assemble, and shoot a plethora of guns the day they hit puberty. But my father ensured this was a safe place and that the women in our lives never had to worry about threats knocking down their doorsteps.

I was supposed to do that for Mia.

I’ve failed, but I swear on everything I hold dear that’ll never happen again.

Mia trails behind me as I lead her through the entrance into the hollow inner chambers. I stare at the array of weapons meticulously organized on the tables, assessing which will be the best tool for her education. Her soft footfalls echo in the stillness as she drifts closer, curiosity outweighing her reservations.

Pausing, I turn to face her. I recognize the apprehension etched into the taut lines of her body, the wariness clouding her eyes.

“What’s all this?” she asks after a beat.

I pick up a Walther PDP-F and the magazine next to it. “This is where you'll learn to defend yourself."

A subtle click of the metal resonates in the tense silence as I shove the clip into the gun. Her lips part on an indrawn breath, and I can practically see the protests formulating behind her intelligent gaze.

Before she can voice them, I continue in a tone that brooks no argument. "What happened back in Chicago…it can never occur again. I failed to protect you, and that is unacceptable."

Regret lances through me as I recall the terror of that night, of seeing her caught in the crosshairs with nowhere to run. The memory torments me still, fueling my determination to ensure her safety, no matter the cost.

“Dario—” she starts.

"I need to know you can handle yourself if the need arises."

Mia's shoulders stiffen, defiance sparking in her eyes even as uncertainty wars within their depths. At this moment, I see a glimpse of the fiery woman I've come to admire, the one who doesn't back down even when logic demands she yield. It is that unbreakable spirit that first captured my interest and now also ignites a fierce protectiveness I've never known.

"Have you ever fired a gun before?" I ask, though a part of me already knows the answer.

Mia shakes her head, her teeth worrying her plump lower lip in a gesture of pure, beguiling innocence. Her eyes lock on the weapon with wariness and morbid fascination.

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