30. Dario
30
DARIO
T he warehouse is dimly lit, a single bulb swinging gently from the high ceiling, casting eerie shadows across the concrete floor. The air is thick with the stench of sweat and blood, mingling with an oppressive fear that clings to everything.
As I step inside, my footsteps echo, the sound reverberating through the silence like a death knell.
The man tied to a chair in the center of the room looks almost unrecognizable. His arms are bound tightly behind him, and his face is a grotesque mask of swelling and bruises from the beating he has endured. He’s already a wreck, but I have every intention of making it worse.
Behind him stands Anton, flanked by two of my men, his expression grim as he meets my gaze. He nods slightly. “Boss, he’s been talking, but not enough. All he keeps saying is he’s sorry, and that’s it.”
A smile creeps across my face, but there’s no humor in it—only cold satisfaction. I advance, anger simmering within me, rising up my spine like a coiled serpent. He dared to mess with my shipment, to take what is mine, and he has disrespected me in the most unforgivable way.
Does he honestly believe I’ll let this slide just because he offers a halfhearted apology? He will suffer for this, and I’ll make an example of him, ensuring that no one else dares to cross me again.
I come to a stop in front of him, towering over his pitiful form. His breath comes in sharp, shallow gasps, his gaze averted as his body trembles with fear.
Good. He should be terrified.
“Rafael,” I call, my voice cutting through the eerie quiet. “You stole from me.” The calmness of my tone is laced with an unmistakable fury. “You know what happens to those who cross me.”
His head jerks up weakly, bloodshot eyes filled with despair and pain. He’s still shaking, and I watch as he struggles to form words, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. “P-Please, Dario. I didn’t mean to…”
“You didn’t mean to what? Steal from me?” A harsh chuckle escapes my lips, sharp and mocking. “Do you honestly believe I give a fuck about your apology? Do you think sorry will somehow fix this?”
His bottom lip quivers, and he swallows hard, desperation etched across his face. “Of course not...I just?—”
“I want one thing from you, Rafe,” I interrupt, my voice low and deliberate. “Whom do you work for? Surely, you couldn’t have orchestrated this operation on your own.”
When he remains silent, only sobbing quietly, I feel my patience stretch thin, fraying at the edges.
“I don’t have time for this.” My voice slices through his sobs like a blade. I glance at Anton, who moves swiftly to hand me an aluminum bat without hesitation. I grip it tightly, feeling the cold metal against my skin, its weight a solid reassurance in my hands. The room falls silent, my men watching, their anticipation palpable as they wait for my next move.
Rafe’s eyes widen in terror as I step closer, raising the bat slightly. “Dario, please!” he begs, his voice cracking with desperation. “I didn’t have a choice. I had to?—”
I swing the bat hard against his ribs, the sharp crack echoing around the room. Rafe lets out a guttural groan, his body jerking in pain. I raise the bat again and swing, sending him sprawling to the ground, blood gushing from his mouth.
“Fuck. I really need to take up baseball as a hobby again,” I muse dryly, a cruel smirk crossing my face. “Haven’t played since high school.”
A few murmurs and chuckles ripple through the room, but they quickly fade when Rafe begins to speak.
“I don’t work for anyone,” he groans, coughing violently, nearly choking on his own blood. “I carried it out on my own…”
“You must think I’m a fool,” I ground out, but he keeps talking, words tumbling from his lips in a rush.
“My wife—she’s sick. Cancer. I...I needed the money for her treatment, for the chemo. She’s dying, Dario, and I couldn’t watch her suffer anymore.”
Cancer.
I pause, my chest heaving with a mix of emotions. The bat suddenly feels heavier in my hands, and for a split second, my rage flickers. But no. I won’t allow myself to feel sorry for him—not after he jeopardized my business. “You think your sob story changes anything?” I spit, my voice low and dangerous. “You think I’ll just let you walk out of here because your wife’s sick?”
Rafe’s body trembles with fear, his face twisting in desperation. He struggles to sit up, but it’s nearly impossible with his hands bound behind the chair. “No, I...I know it was wrong. I shouldn’t have taken the goods. But I was out of options, Dario. She’s all I’ve got. Without the treatment...she’ll die.”
His words linger in the air, but I feel not a shred of sympathy for him. I didn’t climb to this height in the underworld by showing mercy. Striding over to a table propped against the nearby wall, I grab a knife, its cold steel glinting under the dim light. When I storm back toward him, Rafe’s eyes widen like saucers, fear etched across his battered face. I raise the knife, tension crackling in the room as I prepare to bring my hand down.
But then his voice, broken and pleading, cuts through the haze of my anger. “Please,” he whispers, barely audible through his tears. “I’m begging you. I’ll pay back every cent, every ounce of it. I’ll do anything. Just...don’t let her die because of me.”
I freeze, the knife hovering in mid-air.
Don’t let her die because of me.
Suddenly, the image of my mother flashes in my mind—her pale face, weak hands trembling as she tried to hold mine. The cold, sterile hospital room we could barely afford, and the helplessness I felt as I watched her frail body succumb to the pain, powerless against the stings that shot through her. I blink, feeling a tightness in my chest, something I haven’t allowed myself to feel in years.
I lower the knife, taking a small step back, my anger giving way to something else—something I don’t want to acknowledge.
Compassion? Pity?
No. That part of me died the moment I was left to fend for myself. The Dario I am now is the one people fear, the one who doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t flinch.
But then there’s Ginny.
As much as I hate to admit it, she’s changed me. Because of her, I feel things—things I didn’t give two fucks about before. Emotions I’d successfully mastered the art of hiding away now refuse to stay buried. And it’s all because of her.
I grit my teeth, fighting the inner battle raging inside me. One part of me still wants to finish this, to beat Rafe within an inch of his life, to kill him so that no one dares to cross me again. But the other part—the part that Ginny has softened, the part buried deep under layers of darkness for so long—won’t let me. She’s unlocked something in me, something I can’t quite control anymore.
And it terrifies me.
“Leave us,” I order, my voice sharp.
Vito and Gabriel, my other two men, move quickly, but Anton hesitates, clearly confused by the sudden shift in my demeanor. But he knows better than to question me. He nods, following the others out. The door clicks shut, and suddenly it’s just Rafe and me in the room.
I stare at him, my chest tight, my mind racing. I should hurt him. I should make him suffer. I should inflict unforgettable pain. But I can’t. Not after hearing that.
I crouch down in front of him, grabbing his chin and forcing him to meet my gaze. His eyes are wide with terror, but there’s something else there now—hope.
“I’m not going to kill you,” I say, my voice low and controlled. “But you’re not walking out of here without punishment.”
Rafe lets out a shaky breath, his shoulders sagging with the slightest hint of relief. “Th-thank you?—”
“Don’t thank me,” I snap, cutting him off. “You’ll pay me back. Every cent. And if you ever cross me again, you won’t live to see your wife’s next treatment.”
He nods furiously, tears streaming down his bloodied face. “I swear. I won’t... I’ll do anything. I won’t mess up again.”
But I’m not done. I lean in closer, tightening my grip on his jaw until a whimper escapes his lips. I bring the knife to the side of his face, hovering just over his skin, watching as he trembles under my touch.
Then, with one swift motion, I drag the blade from the edge of his eyebrow down to his jawline. A deep groan rips from his throat as blood pours from the gash, staining my hands.
“This is your warning,” I tell him, pushing his head back so hard it slams into the ground.
His groans and whimpers echo in the room as I leave him there, stepping out into the cool hallway. My men are waiting outside, silent, their eyes locked on me. Anton hands me a white handkerchief just as Timoteo opens the car door. I wipe the blood from my hands, the fabric soaking it up as if it’s nothing. Then, I slide into the waiting car.
Minutes later, I’m back in my office, collapsing into the leather chair behind my desk. But my mind won’t settle. I run a hand down my face, feeling the anxiety creeping in, that familiar pressure tightens around my chest, suffocating.
Ginny.
Her beautiful face fills my mind, and I close my eyes, imagining her. She’s a mix of softness and strength, sass and warmth. I recap the past few days. In the quiet moments, when we’re not tangled up in each other, we talk. About everything and nothing.
I’ve memorized every sound she makes when she laughs—her mocking snicker, her amused chuckle, that soft, sarcastic laugh. And the way she looks at me... like she sees right through the walls I’ve spent years building. Like she loves the hidden parts of me I’ve long since buried.
Her eyes... they shine brightest under the sunlight, sparkling with hints of green and gold. But when she’s aroused, they darken to a deep forest green, shadowed with brown. And when she looks at me with admiration, they soften, glowing with a warmth that makes me feel... exposed. Seen.
I’m not a saint. But with her, I want to be better.
My stomach churns as my thoughts begin to spiral. They turn darker, sharper. What if she ever gets sick? What if she leaves me? What if I lose her the way I lost my mother?
The image of Ginny in a hospital bed, pale and fragile, shoots through my mind like a nightmare. I can’t handle that. I’ve barely started letting her in, and the thought of her leaving tears me apart.
I close my eyes, and suddenly, I’m seventeen again, back in that cold, sterile hospital room with my mother. The soft, rhythmic beeping of machines fills the room. She’s trying to smile at me, but her face is so tired, so worn from the sickness.
We were watching Friends , her favorite show. Joey said something funny, and she laughs. But then the laughter turns into violent coughing, so hard I thought she was choking.
Panic flooded me, and the nurses rushed in, her hand squeezing mine, weak and frail. My father burst into the room moments later, alerted to the emergency. His eyes mirrored mine—helpless, broken, afraid.
That same helplessness claws at me now, just like it did back then. My chest tightens, my throat feels like it’s closing up. I can’t lose Ginny. Not her. I’ve already lost too much, and I know—I know —I’m not strong enough to go through that kind of pain again.
I might not lose her to something tragic or out of my control, but that doesn’t mean I won’t push her away with my constant hot and cold behavior. The way I keep pulling her close, then shutting her out—it’s not fair to her. It’s not fair to us.
Trapping her in this marriage, forcing her into a life with someone like me... It was never the right step. And if I don’t change, if I don’t start doing better, I’ll lose her.
I’m going to start now. For her. For me. For whatever this thing is between us that’s growing stronger every day.
Because losing her? That’s a pain I wouldn’t survive.
I push away from the desk, unable to breathe. I need to see her. I need to be near her.
The drive back to my house is a blur, my hands gripping the wheel so tight my knuckles ache. I almost told her this morning while she slept. The words were right there, lingering on my lips. But I held back. Fear—a feeling I haven’t felt in a long time—clawed at my chest, whispering that I had time. That I could tell her later.
Now? Now, it feels like every second I don’t say it is wasted.
I drive into the compound and pull into the driveway, my eyes instantly drawn to her window. The soft glow of her bedroom light spills out onto the garden, casting shadows across the flowers below. My heart pounds hard against my ribs as I cut the engine, but I don’t move right away. I sit there, gripping the steering wheel, my breath heavy, my chest tight.
I need to calm down. I need to think. But all I can feel is the urgency building in me, the sense that this moment is different. That this is the moment everything changes.
Finally, I step out of the car, and the cool night air greets me, brushing against my skin. As I walk toward the front door, each step feels heavier, like the weight of the past is pressing down on me, trying to drag me back to where I’ve always been—guarded, distant, untouchable.
But everything in me is screaming that this I should bury it all—the pain, the old wounds, the fear I’ve carried for too long.
Before it’s too late.