Dario DeLuca: Savage Bloodline

15. Dario

FIFTEEN

The city pulseslike a living thing, and I”m its beating heart as I step out of the black SUV. Chicago wraps around me with a lover’s grip—tight, demanding, and impossible to ignore. The deafening sound of honking horns and the murmur of pedestrians blend into a symphony that”s both abrasive and familiar. My boots hit the pavement, and it feels like stepping onto a battlefield for a moment.

A swarm engulfs me instantly—campaign staff buzzing with nervous energy, photographers with their hungry lenses, citizens craning necks for a glimpse of the man who casts a shadow over this city.

Someone once whispered ”Mafia” as though it was my surname, but today, they”re eager to shake the hand of the politician who promises them salvation from the very darkness they associate me with.

”Mr. DeLuca, right this way,” one staffer urges.

I nod, scanning faces that blur into one another—a sea of expectations and skepticism.

I move with them, through them, their eagerness, a tangible force pushing against the weight of my thoughts. The angst for what I”ve left behind coils in my gut—Mia, her image a constant flicker in the periphery of my vision.

We reach the community center Mia, and her father will open soon. What better place for a rally than in front of the building you helped create? It’s not open yet, but fencing and yellow tape surround it.

Its facade is a mural of hope painted in vibrant colors that clash with the steel gray of my world. Residents of varied ages gather to shake my hand.

”Thank you for being here,” an old woman tells me, her eyes alight with something fierce and hopeful.

Flashes from cameras steal fragments of time, freeze-framing this dance of politics and power. As the crowd cheers, my mind rebels, pulling me back to the gym where sweat glistened on Mia”s skin, where each gasp and moan etched itself into my memory. Her body, a landscape I explored with a conqueror”s claim, tightened around me, her strength matching mine thrust for thrust.

”Your support means everything,” I say to a young man whose gaze holds questions I don”t have answers to. His handshake is firm, his story etched in the worry lines on his brow. He speaks of change, of belief—and I find myself envying his faith.

Each flash of the cameras is a jolt, a call to return to the present where Mia does not exist. But even now, her scent lingers in my senses, sweet and intoxicating. It”s a bitter pang of longing, coupled with the rush of remembering how she yields to me and challenges me in the same breath.

”Mr. DeLuca,” a photographer calls, beckoning me closer to a group of children playing in front of the center. Their laughter is a balm, a reminder of what”s at stake in this concrete jungle.

”Make sure to get my good side,” I quip, the corners of my mouth tilting upward in a practiced smile. With each handshake, each nod of understanding, the thoughts of Mia persist—a persistent whisper against the clamor of the campaign.

”Chicago needs you,” a man says, his eyes earnest behind thick-rimmed glasses. ”You can make a difference.”

”Change is coming,” I assure him, my voice a low rumble of conviction. And as I speak, I believe it—not just for the city but for me—for us, for Mia. She”d scoff at the idea of needing protection, yet there”s nothing I wouldn”t do to shield her from the world we inhabit.

”Let”s take five,” one of my aides suggests, handing me a water bottle. The droplets condense on the surface, a cool contrast to the heat of the throng. I take a long drink, the liquid a poor substitute for the respite I crave.

”Can”t stop now,” I counter, capping the bottle. The fight is here, amidst these people and in the quiet spaces where only Mia and I exist. Every beat of this city, every moment under the public eye, is a step toward a future I”m determined to shape with her by my side. It doesn’t matter that she was forced to be there; she’s there nonetheless.

”More photos, Mr. DeLuca,” another aide prompts, and I follow. Each step is a battle, each photo a victory, all while Mia’s phantom presence hovers just out of reach, guiding and haunting me in equal measure.

All it took was one taste, and now this woman has consumed my thoughts, every other interaction muted by the memory of her. It’s torture how badly she affects me.

I nod, slipping back into the role I”ve crafted—a blend of feared Mafia don and hopeful civic leader. The camera lenses focus on me as I shake hands with a teacher, her smile tentative but earnest.

”Thank you for caring about our schools,” she says, fingers brushing mine with a flicker of trepidation.

”Education is the cornerstone of our future,” I reply, my voice soft yet firm, like a promise whispered in the dark.

”Mr. DeLuca,” a voice cuts through the orchestrated chaos, bringing me back to the present. ”What about your fiancée? We heard she”s quite involved with the community center project. She and the mayor.”

I turn, finding a woman in the crowd, her eyes curious and piercing. A beat passes—Mia”s name on the tip of my tongue feels like both a shield and a surrender.

”Mia is hard at work dedicating herself to the project,” I comment, the lie tasting bitter-sweet. ”Her commitment to the south side of Chicago is unwavering.”

As I speak of her, I feel her essence wrap around me—a shroud of strength and fight. She”s everywhere and nowhere, a constant contradiction that fuels my every action.

”Sounds like she”s quite the partner,” another voice chimes in, admiration laced with the words.

”Indeed,” I agree, my chest tightening with the truth of it. Partner. The term feels alien yet fitting for the complex web we’ve woven together.

The aides usher me away toward the next carefully curated moment, but someone else steps in close—Evelyn, her presence a silent force amid the din.

”Bringing Mia into this might help,” she murmurs, her voice steady despite the noise surrounding us. ”Show them who Dario DeLuca really is—a businessman, civic leader, and in love.”

I glance at her, and our eyes lock—a shared understanding passing between us. Evelyn knows the stakes, the risks, and the play.

”Humanize me?” I muse. The notion is unsettling. To be seen as more than a figurehead, more than a remnant of a world covered in shadows—could it sway the hearts and minds of those whose whispers fill the streets?

”Show them your love,” Evelyn presses, her gaze unwavering. ”It”s the one thing they don”t expect from you.”

Love—an enigma wrapped in the guise of a woman with deep brown eyes and full lips that challenge and beckon. Could displaying our contracted union to the public be the key to winning an election and acceptance?

”Consider it,” she adds before slipping back into the flow of bodies, leaving me to ponder the weight of her suggestion.

”Mr. DeLuca!”

The calls resume, and I step forward, ready to re-engage and continue this dance of visibility and influence. But beneath it all, Mia”s image lingers—a beacon in the turbulent sea of my ambition, pulling me toward an unforeseen shore where power and passion collide.

A renewed vigor pulses through me as I step into the next wave of flashes and vibrant voices. The city”s heart beats against my skin, a drumming echo that resonates with each click of the camera.

”Over here.” A young man extends his hand, and our fingers clasp—a fleeting connection, yet it holds the weight of unspoken contracts, the silent exchange of hope for action.

”Your vision for our community—it”s inspiring,” he offers, his eyes bright with the optimism of youth.

I nod, acknowledging the compliment, but inside, a different picture flickers—Mia”s silhouette against the backdrop of the gym, her form bending not to weights but to my hands, shaping her resolve as much as her curves.

”Thank you.” My voice is a low timbre. ”It”s time for change.”

I move along the barricade, a chess piece on the board of this urban landscape, taking steps that ripple through the gathered crowd. Their cheers are like a wind that propels me forward.

”What will be your first act if elected?” Another hand waves a recorder in my direction, a beacon seeking truth—or perhaps just a headline.

”Reform,” I say, and though the word echoes the sentiment of the masses, it”s also a private vow, a pledge to the woman who challenges me to be more than my name dictates.

The afternoon sun dapples the sidewalk, casting shadows that dance like the lingering doubts that trail me.

”Chicago needs leadership that cares,” I continue, my voice carrying over the assembly.

In their eyes, I see reflections of myself, a man carved from stone and circumstance. But Mia sees beyond the fa?ade, the flesh and blood beneath, and the heart capable of destruction and devotion.

”Your fiancée, Mia—she”s quite the asset to your campaign.” The comment comes wrapped in a friendly smile, but it pierces like a blade, reminding me that our union is seen by many as a calculated move.

”More than you know,” I reply, my response a shield for the truth that Mia is the axis upon which my world turns, the force that drives me to be a man worthy of her fire and grace.

”Will she be joining you on the trail?”

”Her work with the community center is vital,” I deflect.

A breeze whispers through the concrete canyons of the city, carrying with it the scent of lake water and the distant aromas from street vendors.

As the day wears on, I pose for photos, my smile plastered, my posture poised. Yet within the cage of my ribs, my heart claws against the confines, yearning for the moment when I can shed the politician”s skin and be simply Dario—Dario, whose only electorate is the woman who sees through the smoke and mirrors to the raw desire burning beneath.

”One last picture?”

I turn, affixing another perfect smile as the camera captures the image of a leader, a lover, and a protector. There, in the silent click, is the promise of a tomorrow where Mia and I stand unshaken, where the city that birthed us both becomes the canvas upon which we paint our legacy—a fusion of strength and vulnerability, power and passion.

”Thank you, everyone,” I say as the event draws to a close. Their applause is a roaring tide that recedes as I slip into the waiting SUV. The door shuts, sealing me in the quietude of leather and steel.

”Home,” I murmur to Rafael, and as we pull away, I feel her with me—a ghostly passenger, a whispered vow, an oath sworn in the shadows of power.