Dario DeLuca: Savage Bloodline

1. Dario

ONE

Leather creaks beneath me.

It”s a familiar chorus in an office such as this, where power dresses itself in the guise of governance. Even at home, the uniform is the same: privilege and prestige.

“Your guests are waiting in your office, sir,” the shrill voice of the kind older woman who escorted us here echoes through the hall.

Rafael, my right-hand man and younger cousin, glances at me. “Do you know what this is about?”

“Thank you, Linda, I’ll take it from here,” someone says in a deep voice just as the office door inches open and enters Marcus Gordon.

The air is thick with the musk of old books and the faintest hint of fear—but fear of what?

“I guess we’ll find out soon enough,” I say to Rafael as the man closes the door and crosses the room until he’s behind his massive desk.

We watch as he pulls open the side drawer. He takes an exaggerated breath with his hand lingering on whatever’s inside. Now more curious than before we arrived, I study his features. It’s not every day a man of my status receives an invitation to the mayor’s home. And when you’re in my line of business, you get good at reading people, their body language, and emotions, and right now, he’s sweating like a hooker in church.

The mayor, a man whose heart beats to the rhythm of campaign slogans and who is revered as the pillar of our beloved city, is running scared. I’m dying to know why. Whatever it is must go against the laws he protects because he’s requested me, the capo of the Chicago territory. Legitimate business doesn’t require the privacy of his home office.

“Mayor Gordon, do you mind telling us what this meeting is about?”

Without a word, he palms an envelope onto the cherrywood desk between us. The slap of paper on wood jolts like a gunshot in the silence, echoing off the high ceiling.

“Something important?” My lips curl into a smirk, eyes never leaving his.

He doesn’t answer, but the crease in his brow deepens, a crack in his well-rehearsed fa?ade. I reach out, fingers brushing the envelope.

With a flick, I break the seal. My curiosity is piqued, not by the act itself but by its implications. Photographs spill into my hand, glossy and cold as the eyes of the men I’ve laid to rest. I shuffle through them, pictures of Mia captured in moments she believes herself unobserved—a laugh here, a contemplative gaze there—each snapshot an unwanted intimacy. She’s unaware of the lens, the observer, the predator—an amateur stalking her with a camera’s click instead of a trigger’s pull.

“Someone’s got a keen interest in your girl,” I muse, my voice a low hum.

The mayor shifts, his discomfort tangible as he leans forward, a shadow passing over his features. “I need your help.”

“Why should I make this my problem?” I lean back and register each detail, every quiver in his voice. Power has a scent–a taste, and it reeks of desperation right now.

That’s precisely what I’m counting on. Little does he know, he’s falling right into my hands. We’ve been planning a way to strengthen our grasp on the city for months, and he just hand-delivered the keys to the proverbial kingdom.

He produces a note, edges frayed and unfolded with reluctance. Rafael takes it from him while I examine his daughter’s pictures.

Whoever shot these has a marksman’s eye. Some are so close and clear that I can see even the slightest imperfection. They’re few and far between with her beautiful mahogany skin, but there nonetheless.

“You should see this,” Rafael taps my arm.

I accept the page, letting the pictures fall into my lap. The script dances before my eyes, taunting, a serenade of danger in looping letters.

I know what you did. Now, your precious daughter is going to face a similar fate.

I stare at the mayor with worry lines etched into his features. The words, this note, are a mirror reflecting something dark and twisted beneath the mayor’s tailored suit and polished veneer. Now we know what he’s afraid of.

Secrets.

We all have them, and someone is threatening to air his.

“Seems like there’s more to our mayor than what meets the eye.” I let the words hang, hollow as the chasm between truth and the lies we tell ourselves.

My attention swivels to Rafael, his smirk a shared sentiment.

“Is that right, mayor?” I drawl, letting the question hang like a guillotine’s blade. “You spent your formative years getting your hands dirty, and now you need the DeLucas?”

The mayor’s mouth opens, the beginning of a plea or perhaps a protest. But his eyes betray him, a flicker of guilt, a glint of the past. “Your father...”

“Let me stop you right there.” A single hand raised silences him. “I am not my father. Whatever business you had with him ended with his death.”

My mind churns as I piece together this puzzle wrapped in shadows and silk. I sense the shift in the air, the latent energy that comes with a game well played. It’s not just about protection. It’s about power—the kind that comes from holding someone’s darkest secrets in your palm.

“But it seems to me that you need protection. That’s why we’re here, right? To save your princess?”

He nods.

“It’s going to cost you.”

His throat bobs as he swallows, the sound loud in the silence.

“What do you want?” he manages to croak out.

“City council. You’re going to back my campaign,” I state without hesitation. The hold I seek over Chicago extends beyond the shadows; I crave the light, the legitimacy it promises, the power it holds.

“No way,” he protests, his voice gaining a tremor of indignation. “You don’t just run for city council. That takes time.”

“You do when you have an endorsement by the city’s most loved and respected leader.”

“I won’t.”

“Then it sounds like you better teach your little princess how to shoot a gun.” I push back from the desk, the chair groaning in protest.

“Wait,” he exclaims, and I notice the capitulation in his eyes before the words tumble out. “Done. I’ll do it.”

“Smart man.” Satisfaction curls within me, but it’s a hollow victory. I demand more than just political favors. I sink back into the chair. “I’ll protect your daughter and find out who’s behind this.”

Running my hand down the front of my trousers to straighten an invisible crease, I continue. “But…I want Mia to become my wife.”

His response is immediate and vehement. “No.”

“That’s the deal,” I say, my voice even. “Think of the marriage as collateral. You guarantee my seat on the council, and your darling daughter will be well-guarded in my kingdom.”

There’s that deafening silence again.

“Listen. You need our help, and your mention of my father tells me you’re fully aware of the DeLuca legacy. You want me to handle this threat while your image remains pristine.”

The mayor only stares at me, the wheels turning behind his eyes as he contemplates my offer.

“That kind of favor doesn’t come cheap.”

The room grows still, the tension thick enough to choke on. The dance of dominance continues, the push and pull of wills, a negotiation without words. A deal is struck without a handshake, a marriage of convenience born from necessity and greed.

He nods his reluctant agreement.

And then, the air clears, decisions are made, and fates are sealed. I rise, the chair’s groan a parting note as I straighten my jacket with deliberate care.

Rafael gathers the note and photographs, stuffing them back into the envelope to take with us. If we’re going to figure out who’s behind the threat, he’s going to need all the evidence we can find. He beats me to the door, holding it open.

As I breach the threshold, I glance back at the defeated mayor. “We’ll be in touch.”

I don’t wait for his reply and exit his office, quickly approaching his front door. The older woman from earlier is nowhere in sight, so we see ourselves out. Outside the mayor’s estate, the sun dips low, painting the sky in hues of blood and gold.

I pull out my phone and speed-dial Enzo, our Don and slightly older cousin. He picks up on the first ring.

“Cousin. What do I owe this pleasure?”

Rafael unlocks the G-Wagon, the chirp ricocheting off the red brick of the mayor’s home. I climb into the passenger seat while Rafael claims the driver’s side.

“The plan is in motion. City council is within reach,” I share as the door slams shut.

“That’s what I like to hear. Hit me with the deets.”

“Bet.”

We pull off at the same time as a matte grey SL 43 Roadster glides into the circular drive. There she is—Mia, wrapped in sunlight and innocence, her deep brown eyes wide with laughter, unaware of the storm about to break over her head. Her friend steps out first, and then she follows suit, her full lips curved in a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes, hinting at a depth, a resilience that beckons me.

Something akin to hunger stirs in my chest, a craving for the fire she hides beneath her skin. The game is set, pieces moving on a board larger than she knows.