Dario DeLuca: Savage Bloodline

11. Dario

ELEVEN

Mia sprawls across the bed,a book in her hands. I lean against the frame of the doorway, unnoticed. For the first time since our meeting, she looks relaxed. Her relentless stubbornness has challenged me at every turn, but today she seems almost untouchable—peaceful, quiet, and damn near perfect.

She”s a puzzle.

How is this the same woman who raised my gun to me less than twenty-four hours ago?

I clear my throat, piercing the quiet room, and watch the effect ripple across her like a stone cast into still waters.

”Jesus, Dario.” Mia jolts upright, the novel slipping from her grasp, her hair cascading around her shoulders in dark waves. ”What the hell? Ever heard of knocking?”

The shift in the atmosphere is immediate, her tranquility shattered by sharp edges. It amuses me how quickly she chooses chaos, her peace so fragile, so easily broken. I guess we have recent events to thank for that. It’s what happens when shadows start to materialize. It festers and spreads like vines until light becomes darkness.

I focus on the book she was reading, the cover colorful with a bare-chested man on the front. A hint of jealousy pierces me at the thought of her even reading about another man, fictional or not.

“What’s that?” I demand to know.

Mia frowns. “A book.”

Smart-ass.

“Where’d you get it?”

“Rafael. Not everyone in this house is as soulless as you are.”

There she goes, baiting me again, just itching to get a reaction out of me.

”Get dressed. We have somewhere to be,” I say, my voice even as I stand firm in the doorway.

”Like hell, I will.” She throws her legs over the side of the bed, disobedience radiating from her posture. ”Just because you waltz in here doesn”t mean I”ll jump to your command.”

”Appearances, Mia,” I remind her. ”We have them to maintain.”

”Appearances can go to hell.” She tilts her chin upwards in silent challenge.

I step closer, the space between the door and her bed growing slimmer by the second. ”You don”t have a choice.”

”Seems I never do with you,” she nags, the air between us crackling with tension.

”Get dressed,” I insist again, leaving no room for argument.

She glares, eyes sparking with insurgence, but the crackle of fabric tells me she concedes, if only for now. The power struggle ebbs, yet it”s far from over. She will challenge me at every turn, and I must admit, I like that.

She’s no pushover, something she can’t be now that she will be my wife. With the mayor as her father and me as her husband, she’ll be the Queen of Chicago, and strength is the only acceptable trait. This cutthroat world we live in will chew her up and spit her out when it’s done, but not on my watch.

For now, the focus is on Mia and getting her everything she needs to live here. She’s been cooped up in this house, and though it’s only been two days, I know she’s irritable. So today, I’m taking her shopping in town. We’re two hours outside Chicago, and no one knows our location but the family. Not even Marcus is privy to where his precious daughter has been laying her head.

Once we confirm that the person we killed wasn’t working with anyone else, only then will I take her back to the city, so I hope she can find what she needs in this quaint, rural town we’re in.

I descend the staircase, the wood cool beneath my fingertips. The foyer is empty, silence draped over it like a shroud. My phone buzzes, pulling me from my thoughts.

Digging it from my pocket to remove it, I notice an email from Evelyn, the subject line stopping me in my tracks. My pulse races as I open the email and stare at the display. The words glow on the screen, conspiring against me in bold letters.

The black and red design is a theatrical display of loyalty and alliance. The DeLuca name carries weight, but the unseen strings sew this tapestry together. She gets safety—a bastion amidst the chaos—and I, a bride, to appease the council.

The Engagement of Dario DeLuca and Mia Gordon.

That is what it says, and while we knew this was coming, it’s real now. Mia is my bride, and now every elitist in the city will know it. The date is set for two days’ time, which is perfect because it gives Rafael time to finish his investigation. It’s the only way we’ll be in attendance. I need this union to solidify my place in the city’s government, but I won’t knowingly put her in harm’s way.

I hear Mia before I see her, her footsteps soft as whispers against the carpeted stairs. With my fingers still on the email, I look up, and there she stands, the sunlight washing over her and spilling into the room. In this unadorned moment, with Mia clad in casual clothes that cling to her curves, her hair a cascade of natural curls framing her face, I find myself unnerved by her beauty—simple yet profound.

”Okay, I”m dressed. Where are we going?” Her voice slices through the quiet, severing the thin thread of my composure.

Without a word, I move towards the door, opening it, a silent invitation for her to leave the sanctuary of these walls. She moves across the foyer at a snail’s pace, testing my patience. Our eyes meet, a fleeting connection charged with her disdain for me before she steps outside.

”What? Your right-hand man not coming along?” Her sarcasm contradicts the demure picture she painted only moments ago, reminding me that appearances deceive.

”Today is just me and you,” I say as more of a declaration. It hangs between us, an invisible line drawn in the proverbial sand.

Mia hesitates, her chest rising with a breath that catches at my words. She slowly approaches the SUV, her defiance replaced with a subtle softness. I affect this woman, probably more than she cares to admit.

She’s convinced I’m the villain of her story, so when her body reacts to me in a way that is different from the words that come out of her mouth, it leaves her flustered and distressed. I can read her like a book, and the more time we spend together, the more in tune I become with her moods and reactions. She hates me for it, but I bet she hates it more because I’m aware of it.

Opening the passenger door, I wait, watching her approach. She climbs in, and the world narrows down to the space we share—the leather, the steel, the air mingling between us.

I close the door with a soft thud. Mia watches me, her eyes following as I round the vehicle, but the moment I open the door and climb behind the wheel, she faces ahead so that I don’t catch her.

But it’s too late, Bella. I noticed.

“Can you at least tell me where you’re taking me?” she asks while I start the engine. “Or is questioning you forbidden?”

I glance at her. “You’re never forbidden from asking me anything.”

She shuffles in her seat, gearing up to ask me another question. I know what it’s going to be before she can even say it, but I allow her to anyway.

“Okay. Can you take me home?”

I smirk, reach for the gear shaft, and switch into drive. “Nice try, Bella.”

“Why do you call me Bella?” Mia stares at me, her eyes boring as if searching for some profound meaning behind the word.

When, in all actuality, it’s just simple. Straight and to the point.

“Because it’s fitting.” And with that, I drive off, leaving my estate behind us.

After a few hours,we pull up to our last destination for the evening, and I’d be lying if I didn’t say I’m grateful. I grew up with a sister and mother who loved to shop, but they don’t have anything on Mia. Hell, a part of me thinks the damage she did to my pockets is retaliation for this whole keeping-her-against-her-will thing.

I exit the car, the rural area bustling with small-town life. People are out and about, shopping and enjoying each other’s company. Mia is out of the vehicle before I reach her side, stretching and fixing her clothes as she takes in the scenery.

“This is a cute little town. What’s a man… you know, like you doing here?”

“It’s safe and secluded. No one would think of looking for a man like me here.”

“Then why do you want that council seat so bad? You don’t even live in Chicago.”

“I have a condo in Chicago. That”s where I was when your father told me you had the bright idea of running.”

“I wasn’t running. I was visiting my best friend.”

“And almost got yourself killed.”

Mia doesn’t respond. Instead, she sucks in a deep breath. The events of the other night, witnessing the murder of a man, still get to her. It’ll be a long time before she gets over it…if she gets over it.

Death tends to stick with you, especially when it’s as brutal as that was. I’d give anything to take that away from her, to keep her view of the world pure.

I reach around her, closing the passenger side door. “And Bella.”

Mia glances up at me, her eyes wide with curiosity.

“From now on, never step through a door unless I’ve opened it for you.”

Mia swallows and nods. With a tilt of my head, I signal for her to walk toward La Sposa Elegante, the dress shop I had Evelyn research for me. The boutique”s name is etched in graceful gold above the door, promising luxury and exclusivity.

For the first time since we met, she doesn’t defy me. She stops in front of the door, waiting for me to open it. As we enter, the scent of lavender and expensive perfume greets us, mingling with the subtle aroma of leather from the furniture.

The clerk’s eyes light up at the sight of potential patrons, her smile widening as she takes in the Cartier on my wrist as if she’s sizing me up to see if this is about to be a waste of time.

”Welcome to La Sposa Elegante,” she purrs, her attention leaving me and settling on Mia. “How can I help you this evening?”

I rest my hand on the small of Mia’s back, silently claiming her as mine. ”We are here for dresses.”

”May I inquire about the occasion?” the clerk asks.

”Our engagement party,” I respond, the words striking the air between us like a match to a flame.

A shocked expression stretches across the woman’s face at the same time that Mia’s eyes flash to mine with surprise etched into her features.

The clerk recovers, masking her shock with practiced ease. ”Oh. Well, congratulations. Let’s find you something pretty, shall we?”

She smiles at a confused Mia, and when she doesn’t return the gesture, the woman quickly shifts her attention to me. Instantly, the atmosphere around us turns awkward, but the woman doesn’t dare to react.

“This way, miss,” she says while putting the dress she’s holding back on the rack.

Hesitantly, Mia follows her toward the private dressing area with me closely behind. The clerk’s heels click like a metronome on the marble floor. It didn’t dawn on me that this party was just as much news to her as it was to the clerk.

It was Evelyn’s idea because what better way to strengthen my campaign than to announce to the citizens of Chicago that not only does their beloved mayor endorse me, but I’m in love with the city’s princess.

It doesn’t matter that love was never a part of this deal. We reach the area at the back of the boutique, away from prying eyes, and she turns to face us. Her smile turns into a frown when she glances up at me.

“Um… Sir, men aren’t typically permitted in the dressing area...” the clerk begins, her voice hinting at apprehension.

My stare fixes on hers, unyielding, a silent challenge. We stay like this momentarily, me daring her to finish that statement.

She wavers under the weight of my gaze before relenting. ”I guess it”s fine for today. We don”t have any other ladies here now, so why not?”

”Sounds good,” I reply.

Mia huffs, shaking her head as she steps into the dressing area. I take in the luxurious fabrics draped on mannequins, the plush carpet that swallows the sound of our steps, and the gilded mirrors that reflect a world both opulent and confining.

There’s a loveseat in the corner next to a gold end table. I walk over and lower myself on the hard cushion, mentally noting that while it may have looked nice, it isn’t nearly as comfortable.

”Your size and preferred style?” the clerk asks Mia, pulling me from my reverie.

”Size eighteen, and just show me what you have,” Mia responds, her tone devoid of interest—a transactional exchange, nothing more.

“I can do that. Would you two like a beverage while you try on clothing?” the woman offers, attempting to warm the sterile encounter.

A glance passes between Mia and me before she replies, ”Two bottles of water, please.”

With a nod, the clerk hurries away, leaving us on an island of seclusion amidst a sea of satin and silk.

“Why must you assert yourself in every room you’re in?” Mia asks, digging into me the moment we’re alone

I stare at her, confused. “Excuse me?”

Mia points a thumb behind her. “You were rude to that lady for no reason. You don’t run the world.”

“I said nothing to her.”

“You didn’t have to. But you did intimidate her into doing things your way.”

She’s not wrong, but I’ll bite. I like it when my bride pushes back.

“And what exactly do you think I did that was repulsive?”

“Glaring at her until you got your way.”

“That’s just my face.”

”Yeah, well, you have resting bitch face.”

“What?” I can’t help but smirk at that.

”You have resting bitch face. It means you look pissed off even when you”re not.”

”Are you saying I look like a bitch, Bella?” I ask, a rare flicker of humor threading through my words.

There’s a brief pause before she adds, “You’re lucky I don’t call men that.”

“Oh, I find that hard to believe. I bet you’ve called me every bitch under the sun since we met,” I tease.

“More like an asshole. Motherfucker. Dickhead.”

“‘Dickhead’. Nice.” I chuckle. “Why don’t you go ahead and get it all out? You don’t have to bite your tongue with me.”

”Maybe because you also look like you”re contemplating which part of the lake to dump someone in,” she retorts, a playful spark in her eyes. “And I can’t swim, so I’ll pass.”

This time, the laugh comes out full force, and even though Mia is fighting it, a soft giggle escapes her, too. This banter is new, and for a moment, the weight of our circumstances lifts, and we are just a man and a woman caught in a game neither of us fully understands.

”Is that so?” I continue.

”Absolutely,” she fires back, a grin threatening the corners of her mouth.

It”s a dangerous thing, this ballet of ours—dangerous and intoxicating.

Now serious, I gaze at Mia, noticing that despite how playful she’s being, there’s truth in her words. She fears me, and while that would usually excite me, it doesn’t with her. Hurting her is the last thing I intend to do.

Clearing my throat so she doesn’t mistake what I’m about to say for anything but the truth. “Your life is the only thing that matters to me.”

The air shifts as the clerk returns, a rack of dresses in tow and two bottles of water balanced precariously on a tray.

”Here you go,” she says, depositing the drinks and wheeling the rack forward.

”Thank you,” Mia replies, her voice neutral but her eyes alight with a silent challenge.

”Let me know if there”s anything else you need,” the clerk offers before departing, her presence dissipating like mist.

Mia looks through the dresses and removes several from the rack. Then, she hurries into the dressing room, pulling the curtain behind her. Minutes later, she exits wearing a red number that hugs her curves in all the right places. The material is soft silk, complimenting her beautiful bronze skin.

She saunters to the full-length mirror, twisting and turning to check herself out. The scrunch of her nose tells me that she isn’t a fan. But she watches herself a little longer to make sure.

Without a word, Mia disappears behind the curtain again, this time reemerging in a forest-green dress that has her full breasts sitting high. I don’t even try to look away, tracing the soft curve of her cleavage up to her gorgeous face. When Mia turns to face the mirror, I glimpse the low v-cut in the back that’s covered with a sheer, flesh-tone lace.

My eyes hone in on the kaleidoscope of butterflies inked into her right shoulder. She didn’t strike me as the type of woman to tattoo her body, but now I can’t help but wonder if there is more hidden underneath the layers.

“I could so use my phone right about now?” Mia says with agitation in her voice.

We make eye contact, and she glares at me. Suddenly, I remember that pictures are her thing. She’s an influencer, is what Rafael told me, and that is how she’s made a name for herself—sharing her life with her followers and leveraging that reach for the advocacy work she does with her father. But that is also how the asshole I shot found her.

Mia doesn’t bother to wait for a response, nor do I care to give her one. I’ll say it as often as I need to for it to sink in: her protection is the only thing that matters. She continues the ritual of transformation, each gown a new skin to be tried and shed.

She emerges repeatedly from behind the curtain, a vision in lace and chiffon. But it”s not until the black dress envelops her form that my pulse quickens. Form-fitting, off-the-shoulder, and ruched with long flowing sleeves—it”s perfection.

”That”s the one.” The words escape my lips unbidden.

Surprise registers on Mia”s face through the mirror, a fleeting vulnerability. We”re caught in a daze, hunger lingering between us. It’s the kind that devours and is never sated. I shift in my seat, adjusting my crotch to keep myself presentable in this very polished establishment. Mia wets her lips, the gesture only damaging my already heightened senses.

The clerk”s return is untimely, breaking the spell.

”How are we doing?” she inquires, oblivious to the storm she”s interrupted.

”Um. Great. We”ll take this one,” Mia answers, her fingers tracing the contours of the fabric clinging to her like a glove.

”That looks amazing on you. Why don”t you change out of it, and I”ll get you rung up,” the clerk suggests, businesslike.

”Perfect,” Mia responds, her gaze still tethered to mine.

”Can I ask when the party is? We can steam and press the dress for the big day if you”d like,” the clerk offers, her tone hopeful.

”In two days, and no, thank you. We”ll handle the cleaning,” I reply.

”Of course. I”ll meet you at the front when you”re ready.”

In the wake of her departure, Mia slips behind the veil that separates us. But the curtain doesn”t close fully, and I’m met with a sliver of skin and vulnerability not meant for my eyes but impossible to ignore.

Her skin glows against the backdrop of discarded gowns. She”s a fusion of softness and resilience, contradictions melding into harmony.

I watch, the voyeuristic indulgence binding me to her with invisible threads. I see her — truly see her — and in that moment, she eclipses every other woman who has graced my bed or haunted my thoughts.

Her body tells a story of dreams, and I want to read every word to trace the narrative hidden in the curve of her waist and the tilt of her hips.

The curtain yanks open, and Mia”s eyes lock onto mine. Accusation and awareness hang between us.

The silence stretches, a taut line waiting to snap. She stands there, the curtain drawn closed now, her hands skimming over the fabric of the dress in her hand.

”Can we just get this wedding over with?” The words tumble from Mia”s lips. ”Then, you know, get divorced.”

Deadpan, I say, “It’s cute you think divorce is an option. Once a DeLuca, always a DeLuca.”