Page 6 of Dario DeLuca

DARIO

The chillof the Chicago morning clings to my skin as we climb the steps to the mayor's house. The scent of the city—exhaust fumes laced with the faintest hint of Lake Michigan—follows us. We're here on business, cloaked in the guise of civility, but it's the undercurrents of power that draw me in.

Rafael reaches for the brass knocker, tapping it against the door. I watch as he steps back, his hands crossed in front of him, while his tailored suit stretches around the butt of his gun. The heavy oak door swings open with a whisper, revealing the grand foyer adorned with a chandelier, and I can't help but wonder which of the ladies picked out that feature.

"It's for me, Linda," Marcus says on the other side of the threshold. His head is turned as he speaks to the older woman from the other day.

Through the crack between the door, I watch the woman offer him a curt nod and retreat towards the kitchen. "I'll bring whiskey."

"Thank you," Marcus responds, then turns to face us. "Gentlemen."

Marcus holds the door open for us to enter. As we step into the heart of the mayor's home, I glance around, locking everyvisible entrance into memory. It's always better to be aware of your surroundings in the event some shit was to jump off.

The mayor nods for us to follow him to his office, and we allow him to lead the way. The walk is quiet, the air thick with tension. Marcus still seems to be on edge, which is unusual for him. I've spent my entire life in this city, hiding in my father's shadow as he mixed and mingled with other influential people in the town--Mayor Gordon being one of them.

He's always seemed strong, authoritative, and confident; you don't become the District Attorney turned three-term mayor being mild and timid. His imposing presence normally speaks volumes, but now he's rigid with fear and indignation.

We walk into the office, closing the door behind us. Marcus settles in behind his large desk as Rafael and I claim the two chairs in front of it. A second later, there is a knock at the door just before it's pushed open.

We all turn our attention to the front of the room as Linda saunters in, carrying a tray with three tumblers and a small decanter of brown liquor. She walks over to us, sets the tray down, and then pours a serving into each glass. Linda hands them to us, and we take them.

As she takes the decanter over to the small bar cart in the corner, movement near the exit catches my eye. Mia Gordon, her presence an unexpected brushstroke of brightness against the muted backdrop of her father's domain.

She glides past, unaware of the weight of her beauty, her brown eyes fixed on some distant point only she can see. But then, she pauses, doubling back with a curiosity that tugs at the corners of her full lips—a curiosity mirrored in my chest.

"Wow. Twice in two days," she murmurs, more to herself than to me, as she steps into the room, a vision of curves and grace. Her gaze sweeps over us, lingering just a moment too long on Rafael, who remains unfazed by her scrutiny.

"Good to see you again, Ms. Gordon," I say, allowing a fraction of warmth to seep into my voice. "You remember my cousin and colleague, Rafael."

She nods, her eyes narrowing as if piecing together a puzzle we've yet to lay out before her. Linda excuses herself, not that I'm paying attention, my focus solely on the curvy young woman who's about to be my wife.

"You must be serious about this campaign," Mia continues.

The silence that follows is heavy, laden with unspoken truths. Marcus sits like a king amongst men, his authority radiating from him like heat from the sun. Rafael, ever the enforcer, watches her with a guarded respect. And I see the flicker of something feral and untamed behind her composed exterior.

Marcus, with a subtle wave of his hand, beckons her closer. "Come in, baby girl. We need to talk."

She hesitates, the reluctance clear in the slight tension of her shoulders, but she yields as Rafael rises with his beverage in tow and offers his chair with a courteous and commanding gesture. Reluctantly, she lowers herself onto the seat, a queen conceding to sit at a table where every card is stacked against her.

"What's going on?" she asks.

I study how her hands rest on the table, her posture perfect yet poised for flight. There's a keen intelligence in her gaze, a burning desire to understand the game being played around her. She's not just Marcus Gordon's daughter—she's a force unto herself, one who demands recognition and could very well change the rules we all abide by.

Silence hangs heavy in the room, a tangible presence wrapping around us like a shroud. Marcus's eyes flit to his daughter, and for a fleeting moment, I see the façade of the unflappable politician crack, revealing the father beneath. He draws in a breath, steeling himself against the tide of what must be said.

"Someone has been following you," he begins, the words tumbling into the space between us with the subtlety of a gunshot. "They've made threats—against you—to get to me."

Mia blinks, clearly confused. She takes a soft breath through slightly parted lips, trying to understand what's being said.

"Your safety isn't something I'm willing to gamble with," Marcus continues, the tremor in his voice betraying the strain of his concealed worry. "Dario will make sure nothing happens to you."

There it is—the verdict laid bare before her. My role as protector is not a choice offered but a decree delivered.

"Once we're married," I interject, the words smooth and polished. "No one will dare cross that line."

The shock that seizes Mia is palpable, a live wire sparking against my skin. Her wide eyes meet mine, searching for a sign that this is a joke. But it isn’t.

"‘Married’?" The word shreds the quiet. "What the hell are you talking about?" Mia frowns, her gaze darting between her father and me.

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