Chapter 12
Vittoria
Dario doesn’t tell me where we’re going today. Just came to my room this evening and gestured for me to follow him, and I did. It’s easier this way, not thinking too hard about what I’m doing. Or why.
The night breeze is harsh and is biting at my skin.
I should’ve worn something heavier, but I didn’t know we’d be leaving the house.
I barely know anything when it comes to him.
And yet, I trust him. Stupid, probably. Reckless, definitely.
But trust isn’t something that comes with logic.
It settles in like an infection, before you even realize you’ve been exposed.
A car waits for us at the end of the drive, dark and unassuming. Rafa is already in the driver’s seat, his hands gripping the wheel like he’s considering bending it in half. He barely glances at me as I climb into the back beside Dario.
“Do I get to know where we’re going?” I ask.
Dario smirks, that same look that makes it impossible to know what he’s thinking. “Somewhere you’ll like.”
Vague. Annoying. Infuriatingly intriguing.
Rafa mutters something under his breath as he pulls onto the road and his eyes move to the mirror.
“You know, some of us don’t like surprises.”
Dario laughs. “And yet, here you are.”
Rafa’s sigh is the sound of a man regretting all his life choices. I’m starting to think he spends most of his time like that.
The ride isn’t long. Fifteen minutes, maybe. We stop outside a small, nondescript building wedged between a closed deli and a pawn shop with shattered neon letters gleaming in the window. It looks abandoned.
Dario doesn’t give me time to question it before he’s stepping out, holding the door open for me. “Come on.”
Inside, it’s dimly lit, warm, and full of sound. A jazz bar, but not the kind that caters to tourists or rich men looking to feel cultured for a night. It’s real, lived-in. The kind of place where people come to forget the world outside.
A few heads turn when we walk in. Not many. It’s clear Dario’s been here before. He walks with that quiet ease of someone who belongs.
“Wait there,” he says, nodding toward a booth in the corner.
I sit, watching as he crosses the room, and exchanges nods with the bartender before heading straight to the old, worn piano near the stage. He cracks his knuckles and rolls his shoulders. Then he starts to play.
I don’t breathe.
I’ve heard him play before, but never like this. Never this raw, this unguarded. The notes roll through the room and sink into my bones. For a moment, nothing else exists.
And then, just as easily as it began, it ends.
There’s a pause, a collective exhale, before quiet applause spreads through the bar. Dario stands, gives a small nod, and comes back to the booth.
“You play like that often?” I ask, voice softer than I meant it to be.
His smirk is small, barely there. “Not for a long time.”
I want to ask why. But I already know. Life gets in the way. We lose parts of ourselves along the way. Some, we never get back.
We don’t get to sit with the moment for long.
The door swings open. Three men step inside. It is clear they aren’t here for drinks.
Dario tenses beside me. His hand moves slowly and slips under his jacket.
One of the men, broad-shouldered and mean-looking, spots us. His eyes lock onto Dario. “Bellini.”
Rafa curses under his breath. “Should’ve known this was a bad idea.”
The bar quiets. People sense it and the shift in the air. The kind of moment that comes before something breaks.
Dario’s voice is calm. “Didn’t expect him to send you so soon.”
The man grins. “Didn’t expect to see you with her.” His eyes move to me, filled with something cold. “Enzo’s not happy.”
And just like that, the world tips.
Everything happens fast. Too fast.
Dario moves first, flipping the table between us and drawing his gun in one smooth motion. The first shot rings out and is deafening. Then another. Chaos explodes around us.
I hit the ground and crawl for cover as people scream and scatter. More shots. Glass shatters. I hear a grunt—someone hit—but I don’t dare look.
“Vittoria, back door—go now!” Dario’s voice cuts through the noise.
I move, scrambling toward the back door, but I don’t make it far. A hand grabs me, yanking me back. I twist, kicking, but he’s bigger, stronger. A knife glints under the dim lights before it presses against my throat.
I go still.
The man leans in, breath hot against my ear. “Thought you were smarter than this.”
I swallow hard. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He laughs. “Sure, you don’t. That’s why you’ve been warming his bed instead of doing what you were told.”
My stomach twists. He knows. Enzo knows.
“Listen, you have to help me tell him that I haven’t found anything on him,” I say quickly. “Dario never leaves me alone. I just need some time. I know what I’m supposed to do. I’m still on the mission.”
He doesn’t look convinced. “Enzo’s going to have your head for this.”
The words shouldn’t hit me like they do. Shouldn’t make something inside me shrink, tighten. I should be afraid. Furious that my husband put me in this mess in the first place and doesn’t even care to come for me. But has no problem sending his goons after me. But all I feel is—
Loss.
Like I’ve already lost whatever I was holding on to. Like I was stupid enough to believe I ever had it at all.
The man releases me with a shove, stepping back. “Good luck explaining yourself.” Then he’s gone.
I don’t move. I can’t.
Dario finds me minutes later, gun still in hand, blood staining his shirt. His eyes sweep over me, taking in the small cut on my neck and the way my hands are shaking. His jaw tightens.
“It was him,” I say. “Enzo.”
His expression doesn’t change, but I see it. The glint of something suspicious behind his eyes. Something he wasn’t expecting.
“I know,” he says. And I don’t know if it’s a lie.
He doesn’t ask questions. Just takes my hand, pulls me up. “We need to go.”
We leave behind the wreckage, the bodies, the blood. But none of it feels as heavy as what’s aching in my heart and what I’ve known would be coming all along.
When we get home, I barely register the sting as Dario presses a cloth to my wound. His own injuries are worse, but he doesn’t seem to care.
And then, before I can stop myself, I’m kissing him.
Not out of gratitude. Not out of relief.
Out of something much worse.
I’m falling for the man my husband sent me to destroy.