Dario DeLuca: Savage Bloodline

10. Mia

TEN

The knockat the door is soft, almost apologetic, as if the oak door itself hesitates to be the bearer of his summons. I don”t need to hear my name to know who beckons me. The gentle tap on the door is enough to tell me it isn’t him.

”Ms. Gordon, Mr. DeLuca requests your presence in the living room,” Vivian, the woman who helped me, informs me without crossing the threshold into my room.

My voice catches in my throat. I don’t even bother to look up from the book I found in one of the sitting rooms. It was alone on a shelf full of old, leather-bound encyclopedias. It’s a mystery, not something I would normally read, but it gives me something other than my current circumstances to hold on to.

”And if I choose not to indulge him?” I cast my gaze toward the figure that stands at the threshold.

Vivian shifts uncomfortably. ”He insists.”

A sigh escapes my lips. “Fine.”

I climb out of bed, my feet guiding me unwittingly into the hall and down the grand staircase. Each step is heavy with reluctance as I wonder what fresh hell Dario has for me now.

Begrudgingly, I descend into what feels like a walk down the green mile. I”m greeted by an unexpected sight—bags, an array of them, branded with names that resonate with a piece of home.

I stare at them, confused as I approach them. Inside, the treasure unfolds: silk bonnets, pillowcases, and scarves in a kaleidoscope of colors.

A reverse hair dryer stands proudly among bottles and jars filled with promises of nourishment for my hair. It”s a thoughtful gesture, but at what cost?

“What’s all this?” I ask, pointing at the items.

“Hair products for you, at least I hope that’s right. I read that those are staples in a Black woman’s routine, so I had Rafael do his best to find everything.” His voice breaks through my musing, a low rumble that commands attention even when it”s not sought. ”I know you don”t have your necessities, so I told him to get one of everything.”

”You”ve been... observant,” I reply dryly, not wanting to give in to the gratitude building inside me. After all, I’m still here against my will.

“Since you’re living here now.”

“You mean my forced residency,” I interrupt.

“This is your home,” he continues, ”you should have things you like. Food, snacks, body care, makeup, fragrances—I want to know everything so I can get them for you.”

I take in the figure of the man standing before me, asking about my needs. The man whose fitted tee shows deep lines along each ab, whose ink marks its canvas with precision and paints a beautiful picture.

The man who made me feel safe in a situation that could’ve been fatal while managing to still be the biggest threat I’ve ever faced. Here, he is tending to my needs because of an agreement with my father.

Protection is what they keep telling me.

But why is my family a target, and why is Dario the answer?

I blink away my thoughts and focus on him, realizing he’s waiting for my response. Or maybe he’s sizing me up.

My eyes drift back to the offerings before me, contemplating this unsolicited bridge he”s built with shea butter and silk.

“This is all considerate,” I start, “unexpected for sure.” I pause again, trying to find my words. ”But if you’re going to hold me captive, you need to at least clothe me.”

Dario leans against the mahogany archway, his dark silhouette framed by the ambient light. He reaches to his side, retrieving an item previously unnoticed by my eyes—a weathered and familiar duffle bag.

”Your clothes from the car,” he states, dropping the bag at my feet.

”This is not enough,” I say, my tone unwavering, even as I feel him assessing me. I pick up the bag and find the clothes I packed for a two-day stay at Gabby’s. ”They won’t last for the duration of...my stay.”

”Your stay,” he echoes, a hint of amusement tugging at the edge of his mouth. It”s an involuntary reaction, a brief lapse in the armor he wears so effortlessly. “Mia, you still misunderstand your situation. You’re under protection, not a guest nor a prisoner.”

“That’s not what it feels like to me,” I retort. “I have no clothes, and I’m in my cell all the time.”

“Then leave the room and do other things. Swim in the pool if you wish, or fix yourself something to eat. I know you usually like to exercise, there is a state-of-the-art gym around the corner from my office you can use anytime. This is your place now.”

The warmth of the grand living room dissipates as I process Dario”s words, the assertion that I am not his prisoner.

I lift my chin, meeting his penetrating gaze, my resolve hardening. “You still haven’t answered me about my clothes. Can we go to my place and grab them? And I still need to post about the community center and other things on my social media platforms. My base needs to know where we are with our foundation.”

The corner of his mouth quirks, a ghost of a smile that doesn”t reach his eyes, and a small chuckle escapes. “I can have my team post whatever you need. Just jot it down, and I’ll see what I can do about your clothes.”

”If that’s the case, this will be a very long list,” I concede.

”Very well,” he acknowledges. ”Make it detailed. They will take these things up to your room.”

The staff glide about, carting my bags with a quiet efficiency.

My heart beats against my ribcage. This is not just about clothes—it”s a negotiation of space within the confinement he”s crafted for me.

In this quiet moment, it”s just the two of us. I can almost feel his next move, a softening of his usual grumpy demeanor, giving way just a bit as if offering a silent concession.

There”s an odd closeness in recognizing each other”s unspoken needs, a connection that goes beyond words. As he softens, I see a rare vulnerability in Dario DeLuca, the Mafia kingpin, a man whose touch could mean ruin or redemption.

”Thank you.” It’s my only form of gratitude for the man who holds my fate in his hands.

Turning, I move toward the stairwell. ”Your list,” he calls after me.

”I’ll write it up,” I say and continue to climb the stairs.

I want to resist the pull I feel to him, the allure he weaves so effortlessly. But curiosity gets the best of me as I close the door behind me and am left to ponder the enigma of Dario DeLuca.

I settle at the desk, paper spread before me, and as I write, I become aware of the duality of my existence here—privileged yet bound, cared for yet captive.