Page 72 of Dario DeLuca

A circus of wedding planners, bakers, and eager staff swarms everywhere, but I remain dispassionately centered. Cameras flash like lightning bugs around the perimeter, capturing every move we make for public consumption.

I search for Mia, needing to be near her. There she stands, a raven-haired goddess emanating poise and elegance, poring over swatches of ivory and crimson with Gabby. Even amidst the chaos, she exudes a calm I envy.

The fact we're playing house for Chicago's entertainment grates against every protective instinct screaming inside me. I should be out there ripping apart the city brick by brick to find the bastards who dared to strike at the heart of my world—to find the motherfucker who shot the mayor, burned my warehouse, killed my man, and blew up an entire goddamn block.

But here I remain, putting on my best lovesick puppy-dog act.

"Dario, baby, what do you think of this?" Mia asks as I approach her.

I freeze at her question, focusing on just one word:baby. Watching her, I can’t help but wonder if she’s really calling me that or if it’s just for appearance's sake. Once again, she doesn’t even realize what she’s done. Hearing that simple word coming from her lips has me wanting to take her into the nearest bathroom and bury myself deep inside her.

Mia holds up swatches of fabric, her dark eyes filled with excitement only a bride could possess. That does something to me, knowing that she’s going all-in on planning our wedding. There was a time when she wanted nothing more than to get away from me, but that has long passed. Now, she finds me in every room I’m in, crawls into my bed, and stares at me as if I’m the only man in the world. And it feels damn good.

I'm momentarily stunned by how beautiful she is. An ache blossoms in my chest—the realization that this magnificent creature means more to me than I could've fathomed mere weeks ago when she was meant to be a strategic pawn in maintaining my empire.

Clearing my throat, I stride towards her.

"Baby, you know I don't know shit about weddings." The endearment surprisingly rolls off my tongue, my mask firmly in place. "Whatever you want, it's yours."

Up close, I can smell her intoxicating perfume and the alluring hint of her skin's natural musk. My treacherous body reacts instinctively, a whisper of desire stirring low in my abdomen. Getting tangled up in this woman was never part of the plan, yet here we are—an unlikely pairing the world eagerly wants to bear witness to in the name of my political ambitions.

An undercurrent of disbelief still colors my perception of these ridiculous scenarios we keep finding ourselves in—the umpteenth reminder that nothing in our connection started genuinely. Yet when Mia's delicate hand slips into mine with effortless familiarity, it's becoming harder to differentiate the act from reality. She squeezes my fingers with reassuring pressure that zips straight to my hollow core.

"Just tell me what colors you like," she murmurs, those full lips curving into an amused smile. "You have to have an opinion on that, at least?"

As she speaks, the bob of her throat ignites my undisciplined thoughts. I fantasize about trailing kisses down the elegant column of her neck, relishing how her pulse would flutter beneath my lips. Reining in my baser instincts, I shrug one shoulder ambivalently.

"Red," I murmur in a low rumble meant only for her ears. "The color of passion…of sin…of flesh and blood and things that fucking burn." I pause, drinking in the delicious shiver rippling through her. My lips curve into a wolfish grin. "Perfect for a wedding, don'tcha think?"

There—a subtle flare of heat in her eyes and the slightest parting of her lips. The effect I elicit in this strong, self-possessed woman strokes my ego and masculinity every time. An unspoken spark crackles between us, loaded with the unsaid promises of how explosive we could be together beyond this ridiculous facade.

I lean in to whisper in her ear. “I don’t care about wedding colors or cake flavors, Bella. What I want is for you to meet me in the women’s bathroom.”

Mia’s spine snaps straight, her cheeks flushed.

“N…no.” She glances around to be sure no one hears me. “No. Dario. Remember, we’re doing this for your campaign. Behave.”

As Mia speaks, all I can do is watch her lips moving. Whatever she’s saying falls on deaf ears, and before she can protest, I pull her close. She whimpers, the sound shooting straight to my cock. Without warning, I bring my mouth down on hers.

She grips my arms, her nails digging into my flesh as she melts into me. I love how her body responds to me, even in a room full of cameras. Lens flashes all around us, but the sharp clearing of a throat shatters the heated spell that binds us together. Reluctantly, I tear away from Mia to find Evelyn hovering nearby, her expression taut with thinly veiled displeasure.

"If you two are done," she interjects, "perhaps we could get pictures of you two feeding each other cake and looking at swatches.”

“Is that necessary?” I demand, annoyed that she had the gall to interrupt us.

It’s been a couple of days since I’ve held my woman in my arms, with her spending all her spare time at her father’s side.

“Yes. Seeing you two together is the one saving grace we have right now. The citizens love you together, and seeing you planning your wedding together will go a long way in winning them over. Your numbers have dropped significantly since the shooting, and I believe this is the best way to turn things around. It…”

“Right. It humanizes me. Fine. Take your pictures. “

Evelyn smiles and then waves over the press, who approach with their cameras ready.

While pragmatic, her words are like swallowing a mouthful of ground glass. The urge to lash out and lay down the law is an almost overpowering impulse. But Evelyn's assessment isn't wrong—my numbers are declining, and the people are losing faith in me. If I’m going to win the council seat and fulfill my duties to the family, then I’ll need to play by her rules.

Whether I like being told what to do or not, I hired her for a reason. Almost as if sensing the inner war raging within me, Mia leans closer, pressing her body flush against my side. Her addictive warmth and vanilla-sweet scent effectively puncture the haze clouding my vision. I instinctively wrap a possessive arm around her waist, anchoring myself against her reassuring reality.

"Just breathe," she murmurs. "Focus only on me."

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