Dario DeLuca: Savage Bloodline

29. Dario

TWENTY-NINE

“Mr. DeLuca,what sort of cake did you have in mind?”

My mind is so overwhelmed with the scene before me that the question catches me off guard.

“I’m sorry. What?” I manage to utter, my brows furrowing in an attempt to regain control over my thoughts.

“The groom’s cake for your wedding? Did you want a classic yellow or?—”

My frown deepens, confusion sweeping over me in waves. This is supposed to be a meeting with my campaign manager and constituents to settle the minds of anyone worried after the shooting at the community center. But when I look around, I see a grand ballroom dripping with crystal chandeliers and plush velvet accents.

A circus of wedding planners, bakers, and eager staff swarms everywhere, but I remain dispassionately centered. Cameras flash like lightning bugs around the perimeter, capturing every move we make for public consumption.

I search for Mia, needing to be near her. There she stands, a raven-haired goddess emanating poise and elegance, poring over swatches of ivory and crimson with Gabby. Even amidst the chaos, she exudes a calm I envy.

The fact we”re playing house for Chicago”s entertainment grates against every protective instinct screaming inside me. I should be out there ripping apart the city brick by brick to find the bastards who dared to strike at the heart of my world—to find the motherfucker who shot the mayor, burned my warehouse, killed my man, and blew up an entire goddamn block.

But here I remain, putting on my best lovesick puppy-dog act.

”Dario, baby, what do you think of this?” Mia asks as I approach her.

I freeze at her question, focusing on just one word: baby. Watching her, I can’t help but wonder if she’s really calling me that or if it’s just for appearance”s sake. Once again, she doesn’t even realize what she’s done. Hearing that simple word coming from her lips has me wanting to take her into the nearest bathroom and bury myself deep inside her.

Mia holds up swatches of fabric, her dark eyes filled with excitement only a bride could possess. That does something to me, knowing that she’s going all-in on planning our wedding. There was a time when she wanted nothing more than to get away from me, but that has long passed. Now, she finds me in every room I’m in, crawls into my bed, and stares at me as if I’m the only man in the world. And it feels damn good.

I”m momentarily stunned by how beautiful she is. An ache blossoms in my chest—the realization that this magnificent creature means more to me than I could”ve fathomed mere weeks ago when she was meant to be a strategic pawn in maintaining my empire.

Clearing my throat, I stride towards her.

”Baby, you know I don”t know shit about weddings.” The endearment surprisingly rolls off my tongue, my mask firmly in place. ”Whatever you want, it”s yours.”

Up close, I can smell her intoxicating perfume and the alluring hint of her skin”s natural musk. My treacherous body reacts instinctively, a whisper of desire stirring low in my abdomen. Getting tangled up in this woman was never part of the plan, yet here we are—an unlikely pairing the world eagerly wants to bear witness to in the name of my political ambitions.

An undercurrent of disbelief still colors my perception of these ridiculous scenarios we keep finding ourselves in—the umpteenth reminder that nothing in our connection started genuinely. Yet when Mia”s delicate hand slips into mine with effortless familiarity, it”s becoming harder to differentiate the act from reality. She squeezes my fingers with reassuring pressure that zips straight to my hollow core.

”Just tell me what colors you like,” she murmurs, those full lips curving into an amused smile. ”You have to have an opinion on that, at least?”

As she speaks, the bob of her throat ignites my undisciplined thoughts. I fantasize about trailing kisses down the elegant column of her neck, relishing how her pulse would flutter beneath my lips. Reining in my baser instincts, I shrug one shoulder ambivalently.

”Red,” I murmur in a low rumble meant only for her ears. ”The color of passion…of sin…of flesh and blood and things that fucking burn.” I pause, drinking in the delicious shiver rippling through her. My lips curve into a wolfish grin. ”Perfect for a wedding, don”tcha think?”

There—a subtle flare of heat in her eyes and the slightest parting of her lips. The effect I elicit in this strong, self-possessed woman strokes my ego and masculinity every time. An unspoken spark crackles between us, loaded with the unsaid promises of how explosive we could be together beyond this ridiculous facade.

I lean in to whisper in her ear. “I don’t care about wedding colors or cake flavors, Bella. What I want is for you to meet me in the women’s bathroom.”

Mia’s spine snaps straight, her cheeks flushed.

“N…no.” She glances around to be sure no one hears me. “No. Dario. Remember, we’re doing this for your campaign. Behave.”

As Mia speaks, all I can do is watch her lips moving. Whatever she’s saying falls on deaf ears, and before she can protest, I pull her close. She whimpers, the sound shooting straight to my cock. Without warning, I bring my mouth down on hers.

She grips my arms, her nails digging into my flesh as she melts into me. I love how her body responds to me, even in a room full of cameras. Lens flashes all around us, but the sharp clearing of a throat shatters the heated spell that binds us together. Reluctantly, I tear away from Mia to find Evelyn hovering nearby, her expression taut with thinly veiled displeasure.

”If you two are done,” she interjects, ”perhaps we could get pictures of you two feeding each other cake and looking at swatches.”

“Is that necessary?” I demand, annoyed that she had the gall to interrupt us.

It’s been a couple of days since I’ve held my woman in my arms, with her spending all her spare time at her father’s side.

“Yes. Seeing you two together is the one saving grace we have right now. The citizens love you together, and seeing you planning your wedding together will go a long way in winning them over. Your numbers have dropped significantly since the shooting, and I believe this is the best way to turn things around. It…”

“Right. It humanizes me. Fine. Take your pictures. “

Evelyn smiles and then waves over the press, who approach with their cameras ready.

While pragmatic, her words are like swallowing a mouthful of ground glass. The urge to lash out and lay down the law is an almost overpowering impulse. But Evelyn”s assessment isn”t wrong—my numbers are declining, and the people are losing faith in me. If I’m going to win the council seat and fulfill my duties to the family, then I’ll need to play by her rules.

Whether I like being told what to do or not, I hired her for a reason. Almost as if sensing the inner war raging within me, Mia leans closer, pressing her body flush against my side. Her addictive warmth and vanilla-sweet scent effectively puncture the haze clouding my vision. I instinctively wrap a possessive arm around her waist, anchoring myself against her reassuring reality.

”Just breathe,” she murmurs. ”Focus only on me.”

Rationally, I know she”s just playing her part to perfection. Yet the more time passes, the more I find myself drowning in what lies between the lines, the heated depths of her gaze, the reassuring slip of her fingers through mine, the protective way her body molds so seamlessly to my own, as if she was born to be cradled in my embrace.

With effort, I tear myself from the temptation of her mouth to sweep a look across the assembled crowd. More cameras flash as I pretend to understand what the wedding planner says to Mia and me.

They circle us, getting shots at every angle. We move about the space, going over to where the baker is with an assortment of cake samples. I’d ignored the question previously, but now there is no avoiding it, not when people are hanging on our every word. Mia picks up what looks to be red velvet and feeds it to me.

My eyes grow wide, and she laughs.

“Good, right? And it’ll fit your color choice.”

“That is good,” I admit.

”I’m glad you like it. We also have this delicate white cake with a buttercream frosting that I think would be perfect for the bride’s cake,” the baker adds.

I stare at her, just as confused as I was earlier. “There is more than one cake?”

Mia chuckles. “Yes. We could do one cake, but I thought having one for each of us would be good.”

“Why?”

“Why not?” she counters.

I shrug and look at the baker. “Two cakes it is.”

The room erupts into soft laughter as I give in to my bride-to-be’s wishes.

“Whatever the lady wants…”

“Mr. DeLuca. What do you have to say about the rumors circulating about you being a violent Mafia boss?” a reporter yells from the crowd. Just like that, Evelyn’s worries come to fruition.

Suddenly, the room goes still as his accusation hovers over us like a storm cloud. All gazes turn to me, unanswered queries circulating in their eyes.

“That would certainly explain the violence that seems to follow you around like a persistent stench.”

Every muscle in my body goes rigid with coiled menace.

“You want the people of Chicago to vote you into office, but can they trust you? Sources say that you are a brutal, evil man who broke a man’s hand because he spoke to your future wife. And you’ve yet to address the shooting at the community center in which both you and your fiancée are involved. What about the recent bombing on the south side? Surely, that isn’t just a coincidence.”

His questions come in rapid succession, antagonizing me. My hands form into fists as anger boils inside me. I am ready to unleash the fury, violence, and intimidation tactics that are as natural as breathing to me.

But then Mia”s delicate arm wraps around mine, our fingers lacing together in a gentle yet firm grip. The simple contact is like an electrical current, grounding me, dissipating the simmering anger coiling tighter with each accusation flung our way.

I turn my head, breath catching at the unwavering strength and devotion shining in her brown eyes. At this moment, the noise from the reporters becomes a distant hum as Mia”s presence brings me comfort. She is my shield against my own harsh tendencies, the gentleness that softens the rough edges shaped by years of conflict and aggression.

My fingers tighten around hers, and I draw strength from her quiet courage. When I face the vultures again, it”s with a steady voice and the self-assured poise of the polished politician I”m supposed to be.

”The attempts to derail my campaign through rumors and innuendos are transparent,” I state evenly, letting my gaze sweep over the reporters with glacial calm. ”I won”t be deterred from my sworn duty to protect the people of this city and restore safety to our streets. What is happening in our city won’t be tolerated, and we will do everything in our power to bring the person who shot our beloved mayor, my father-in-law, to justice.”

I raise Mia”s hand to my lips, brushing a kiss across her knuckles as her radiant smile threatens to undo my hard-won composure. ”With my family at my side, giving me strength, I will do everything in my power to end this cycle of violence.”

The possessive emphasis on the word family is visible to everyone. Mia is more than a campaign prop, more than a supposedly love-struck bride. She is the strong anchor for my humanity, the comforting refuge in the harshness of my world. And I”m deeply captivated by her quiet strength.

Our lips meet in a lingering kiss, her supple curves molding enticingly against me. I drown in the intoxicating sensations—the velvet glide of her mouth, the faint vanilla scent of her skin, the molten heat searing through me at her intimate proximity. For a fleeting moment, everything around us fades into blessed silence as I lose myself in Mia”s embrace.