Dario DeLuca: Savage Bloodline

8. Mia

EIGHT

The sleek blackSUV stops abruptly, and the engine”s hum dies, jerking me back to reality, a reality I”m not ready to face. My heart hammers against my ribcage, each beat a reminder of the precipice I”m teetering on.

The world outside my window morphs into an exclusive surreal painting of luxury and excess. Dario”s mansion emerges, its modern lines and vast windows a silent testament to his world—a world I”m still grappling with.

The door on his side opens with a soft but firm click, followed by the constant ding of the open door alert, marking our transition from motion to stillness. Dario exits the car in a fluid motion. I shut the door behind him with a soft thud, a sound that somehow signifies the beginning of an inevitable confrontation.

When the alert stops, it leaves behind an almost palpable silence.

His footsteps on the gravel are barely audible, just a whisper on the driveway. Yet my apprehension increases with each step that resonates like a drumbeat in my chest.

I watch him through the window, the glass a cold barrier that does little to mask the intensity of his approach. His movements are graceful, yet there”s a tension in how he carries himself—with a predator”s grace, controlled and precise. The ambient light casts shadows across his features, softening the hard lines of determination on his face. His gaze is fixed, not on the path ahead, but on the car—on me, as if he could peel back the layers of metal and glass with sheer willpower.

As he rounds the car to my side, the anticipation tightens around my heart like a vice. It”s not just his physical presence that overwhelms me–it”s the sheer force of his personality, the unspoken power dynamic that swirls around him like a cloak.

My door swings open with a grace that contradicts the storm brewing in his eyes—a storm I unwittingly unleashed with my defiance. My heart stutters, caught in the aftermath of the kiss he planted earlier, a kiss that was both an assertion and a question, leaving chaos swirling within me.

”Come,” he says, but it”s not a request. From what I can tell, it never is with him.

I recoil, pulling my hand back as if burnt. I dart my gaze from his outstretched palm to the mansion looming before us, a fortress of stone and secrets. I can’t surrender—not now, not to him.

”Please,” I whisper, the single word hanging between us, a feeble attempt at resistance. But it”s as if he doesn”t hear me, or perhaps he chooses not to.

The scent of wealth and danger mingles in the air, his breath hot on my neck as he leans over. His hand—a map of inked stories and unspoken threats—reaches past me with a grace that belies his frustration, his fingers invading the space around me. The click of the seatbelt feels like the final verdict of my fading autonomy.

”Move,” he commands.

But my body rebels, anchored in place by fear and disrespect. I plant my feet firmly on the car floor, refusing to budge.

Dario sighs. It’s a low sound laced with impatience. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t argue. He moves quickly, each motion deliberate and smooth. Muscles tense beneath the delicate fabric of Dario”s suit as he reaches for me—patience wearing thin, an apex predator poised to claim what he deems his.

My heel scrapes against the leather seat, a stubborn anchor against his insistence, yet I”m hoisted over his shoulder in one swift motion.

His shoulder presses into my abdomen, firm and unrelenting. The sensation of his body—a tapestry of muscle and sinew—against mine sends an involuntary shiver down my spine.

The chill of the wind bites at my exposed skin as we move. Each step he takes resonates with power, the kind that whispers threats and promises in the same breath. I”m an unwilling participant in this dance, my hands beating against his back, a futile attempt at revolution.

”Let me go,” I demand. My voice comes out muffled against his jacket.

When we walk up the stairs, the doors open as if on cue, swallowing us into its vastness. The air shifts, now cooler and laced with the fragrance of luxury and mystery pervading Dario”s home. The door closes with a soft click followed by a series of mechanical whirs, the sound of pneumatic locks engaging, a chilling reminder my freedom is now at the mercy of a man whose hands are stained with more than just power.

He sets me back on my feet, and I pivot on my heel, shifting my eyes towards the grand staircase and then around the room in search of any hint of an exit, any escape from this cage.

My breath catches as I lunge for the door, but it’s useless. The door seems to be locked from the outside.

”Miss Gordon,” a voice cuts through the heavy air, soft yet unyielding.

A woman, whom I assume is part of his staff, stands between me and my fleeting hope, her face impassive.

”The doors require a code for both entry and exit.” Her words drop like shackles around my ankles, the weight of their implication anchoring me to the spot.

”Settle down,” she suggests, not unkindly, but the undercurrent of authority in her tone is unmistakable. It”s clear—these walls aren”t just here to keep others out but to keep me in.

I turn, facing him, the architect of my captivity.

”Dario DeLuca,” I articulate each syllable, ensuring my voice doesn”t tremble with the fear that snakes through my veins. ”You can”t keep me here.”

He remains still, carved from stone, his eyes reflecting a storm of dark seas. He steps forward, close enough I can feel the heat emanating from his body and smell the faintest hint of citrus on his skin.

”Today,” he begins, his voice a low rumble, ”your life hung by a thread so thin, it would”ve snapped if not for my intervention.” His fingers lift, grazing the sleeve of my shirt. The fabric feels heavy, clinging to my skin like a shroud. ”This is why you cannot leave.”

I jerk away to avoid him touching me when I catch a glimpse of myself through the mirror hanging on his wall. There it is, a crimson blossom staining my shirt. It taunts me, reminding me of the violence I witnessed only a couple of hours ago.

My heart stutters, and my breath catches. It”s real—the blood, the violence, the irrevocable step into darkness. And it”s on me.

I panic, my hands moving with a mind of their own as I slap and tug at the fabric in an attempt to get the blood off me.

“Bella.” Dario reaches for me, placing a palm on either shoulder to calm me. “Mia, relax. Breathe.”

“Oh my god. Get it off of me. Please”

“Mia,” Dario’s voice is stern yet surprisingly soothing. “Relax. Breathe.”

I try to do as told, my breaths still erratic. How is he so still? I watched him murder someone–for me. Why is he acting like it’s just a typical day in life?

”Look,” he commands, his hand guiding mine to touch the stain.

”Look at it, Mia,” Dario’s voice is soft yet firm. ”This is the cost of your safety–the price of not taking the threat seriously.”

“You mean the price of dealing with the Mafia. That’s what you are, right? Some Mafia leader?”

“Yes,” is all he says. There is no hesitation or giving it to me easily. He’s the head of a crime organization, and my father has pretty much sold my soul to the Devil.

His words are a labyrinth, each leading deeper into the truth I refuse to accept. I can”t escape the influence of his world, as its troubles become part of mine. I breathe shallowly, finding the air thick and hard to inhale.

”Understand, Bella, you”re not just someone I saved—you”re under my protection now.” Dario”s declaration is absolute, his vow binding us together in a twisted fate.

The sight of blood grounds me in this harsh truth. And I know the violence he committed in my name will haunt my thoughts forever.

”Clean her up,” he orders, a baritone rumble that seems to reverberate off the marble floors and rich tapestries adorning the walls.

”Come,” she murmurs, guiding me with a light touch on my elbow. She steers me away from the gallery of ancient eyes—portraits of stern ancestors—that seem to judge my every move.

The woman with eyes that hold stories never spoken approaches me. Her hands are steady and unassuming as she uses cotton balls soaked in peroxide to clean the splatters of blood from my face. Each touch feels conflicting—comforting yet invasive at the same time.

The bathroom is a sanctuary of white Carrara marble and gleaming chrome, insulated from the world outside. She turns on the shower, steam billowing like a soft, warm fog, clouding the reflection of my haunted gaze in the mirror.

”Use these,” she gestures to the array of toiletries, no doubt chosen for their calming scents and promises of purity. ”They will help.”

The cascade of water becomes a baptism, each droplet like a liquid whisper attempting to wash away the filth of the day”s events. And no matter how scalding the water is, it won’t cleanse the soul and cannot erase the images etched behind closed eyelids.

But I scrub anyway, my fingers working to erase it all away. Fighting to reclaim a semblance of the woman who woke this morning unaware of how closely violence clung to her shadow.

The soap glides over my skin, and water swirls down the drain, carrying with it flecks of red. I close my eyes, let the water run rivulets down my back, and there it is—the ghost of his kiss, haunting the corners of my mind.

Ownership was etched in a moment of heat and dominance seared onto my lips. And though I tell myself I am not his to possess, the echo of that kiss courses through me, a relentless tide that threatens to sweep away my resolve.

In his world, protection comes at the cost of freedom, care is laced with control, and safety is indistinguishable from captivity.

This man, this force of nature who has swept into my life like a tornado, challenges everything I thought I knew about strength and vulnerability. Nothing is the same. My life is no longer mine. The rose-colored glasses I wore are now tinted black, and the image I had of my father changed forever.

I don’t know anything anymore, but I won’t go along with their plan without a fight. He may have killed someone for me, but he killed them nonetheless, and for that, there’s no way anyone can convince me that he’s my safest option.

I shut off the shower, the sudden silence deafening. Wrapping myself in a plush towel, I confront my reflection once more. The blood may wash off, but the stain on my soul will linger.