Chapter 21
Dario
The jet hums beneath us, a smooth, constant vibration as we cut through the night.
Outside, the sky is an endless stretch of darkness, pinpricked with stars.
Inside, the cabin is warm, quiet and wrapped in the kind of luxury I barely notice anymore.
But Vittoria does. She runs her fingers over the leather armrest and her eyes move to the champagne bottle chilling in its silver cradle, the way the soft lighting casts everything in a golden glow.
“You ever get tired of this?” she asks and tips her head toward me.
I shift in my seat, then stretch my legs out. “Private planes? Expensive liquor? Perks of being an international criminal?” I smirk. “No, I think I’ll keep it.”
She rolls her eyes, but there’s a softness to it. “That’s not what I meant. I mean… don’t you ever miss normal things? Airports, security lines, screaming children kicking the back of your seat?”
“Sounds like hell.”
She laughs and shakes her head. “I used to dream about traveling. But my life was…” She exhales then stares at the glass in her hands.
“Controlled. Everything was decided for me. Where I went, what I wore, who I spoke to. It didn’t even feel like a life.
More like being on display, just something to be owned. ”
A muscle tightens in my jaw. “You’re not owned anymore.”
She looks at me, really looks at me, like she’s searching for something. “No. I’m not.”
The quiet between us isn’t empty. It’s heavy, filled with the weight of everything we haven’t said. Maybe we’re not ready to say it yet. Maybe we don’t have to.
I reach for her hand, threading my fingers through hers. It’s not just for her. It’s for me too. A tether. A reminder. A distraction from the fact that I still fucking hate flying.
But with her here, it’s not so terrifying.
***
Italy is different than I remember. Maybe because I’m different.
We walk through the narrow streets of Florence, the stone beneath our feet worn smooth from centuries of footsteps.
I take her through alleyways I used to cut through as a teenager, past cafes where I spent stolen afternoons, past buildings that once held pieces of my old life.
She watches me closely, like she knows I’m somewhere else, caught between memory and the present.
“Did you ever think you’d come back?” she asks as we stand on the Ponte Vecchio, the river below us reflecting the city lights.
I lean against the railing and watch the water. “I didn’t think about it. I was too busy surviving.”
She’s quiet for a moment. “Surviving isn’t the same as living, you know.”
I turn to her. “And what do you know about living?”
She shrugs and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “Not much. But I know I want to try.”
Something tightens in my chest. “Then I’ll make sure you do.”
Her lips curve, and she reaches for my hand, giving it a small squeeze. “Promise me something.”
“Depends.”
“Promise me you’ll let me do the same for you.”
I exhale, long and slow, the weight of her words settling deep. She thinks I can be fixed. That I can be saved. Maybe that’s the biggest difference between us—she still believes people can heal. I’m not sure I do.
But I look at her, at the way the city lights catch in her eyes, at the way she stands next to me, fearless despite everything she’s been through. And maybe, just maybe, I want to believe her.
“Okay.”
***
The art gallery is packed. People mill around with champagne flutes in hand and admiring paintings I barely glance at. Vittoria, on the other hand, is absorbed. She drifts from piece to piece, eyes bright, taking in every brushstroke, every detail.
“You like art?” I ask, watching her instead of the paintings.
She nods. “I never got to see much of it before. But it’s… I don’t know. It’s like pieces of someone’s soul, right there on the canvas. It makes me feel something.”
I watch the way her fingers brush over her arm, the way she tilts her head as she studies the colors.
“What about music?”
Her lips quirk. “Why? Are you going to serenade me here?”
“Maybe.”
Her eyes widen. “Wait. You’re serious?”
Before she can argue, I grab her hand and pull her toward the small stage set up at the end of the gallery.
A piano sits there, black and gleaming under the lights.
It’s been a while since I played, not since that night Enzo attacked us, but my fingers itch for it, muscle memory coiling beneath my skin.
People turn and murmur as I sit down. Vittoria watches, half-amused, half-stunned.
I place my hands on the keys and let everything else fall away.
The first notes are soft, then stronger. A melody I haven’t touched in years, something I used to play when I was alone. When I needed an escape. Now, I play it for her. Because she should have something beautiful, something untouched by blood or pain or anything that came before this moment.
When I finish, the quiet stretches through the gallery before soft applause ripples through the crowd. But I don’t care about them. I only care about her.
She’s staring at me with something unreadable in her expression. Then, slowly, she smiles.
“That was…” she trails off and shakes her head. “I didn’t know you could play like that.”
I smirk. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”
She holds my eyes as something shifting between us, something deeper than words. And I know, without a doubt, that I would burn the whole world down before I let anything take this away from her.
***
The drive back to our hotel is quiet, but not in a way that feels empty. It feels… settled. Like we’ve said everything we needed to say without speaking at all. She watches the city lights blur past the window while her fingers rest on her knee and a cup of coffee in her hand, lost in thought.
I glance at her. At the way the passing streetlights carve shadows across her face, at the way the glow of the dashboard highlights the curve of her lips.
When we drive a little into the highway, I pull the car to a stop.
It isn’t dark yet—not by a long stretch—but the sky is a sea of gray and white clouds. A chill hangs in the air, hinting at incoming rain, but I’m not worried about that. I’m here with the woman I’d go to the ends of the earth for because I love her, and there’s something I’ve always wanted to do.
She blinks and turns to me. “Why are we stopping?”
I unbuckle my seatbelt and push open the door. “Get out of the car.”
I jump out as well, nearly slamming the door off its hinges. I circle around to where she is just as a car speeds past us on the road. Over the hood of my car, she offers me a smile that sends my heart somersaulting in my chest.
Let’s face it: she’s the light in the dark, the very reason my world hasn’t tilted off its axis.
When she smiles like this, as if nothing could ever go wrong, I feel it too—nothing can go wrong.
It's cooler out here, and the road is quiet, empty for now.
She looks at me, waiting.
I step closer, and she doesn’t move away. Her breath catches, lips parting just slightly, like she’s already bracing for what she knows is coming. Or maybe hoping for it.
“Because I needed to look at you properly,” I say.
And then, I kiss her.
It’s not rushed. Not desperate. It’s possessive, like I’m making sure she understands exactly what this means.
My hand comes up and my fingertips brush along her jaw, feeling the way she shivers under my touch.
She’s soft, warm, and when I press my lips to hers, she sighs against my mouth, melting into me like she’s been waiting for this as long as I have.
The hand not holding the cup fists in my shirt, pulling me closer, and I let her—because I want to be closer. Because I want to drown in the feel of her, in the taste of her, in the way she tilts her head just right, like she already knows how to fit against me.
“I want to fuck you right here, right now,” I say.
I swear, Vittoria nearly chokes on her coffee. “What?”
“You heard me, didn’t you?”
“I did.” She swallows hard, setting the half-empty cup aside. When she glances back at me, her cheeks are crimson, the color spilling from her face to her neck. Her dress clings to her curves as if it were tailor-made for her, but even then, I’m still lost.
I want to taste her again, to feel her softness in my arms. I want to kiss her forever, and get lost in the sweet audacity of her eyes. It’s a desire that transcends words, and I think she knows it too because then she moves in closer.
I wrap my arms around her and capture her mouth in mine once more before we even get the chance to talk again.
I’ve kissed her before but kissing her always somehow feels like the first time.
She tastes like caramel from the coffee she’s been drinking, mixed with spice and mint.
My senses blend in an endless loop, fixed only on how wonderful she tastes.
My tongue dances in her mouth as she finds a rhythm to her own desperation.
“I want to tear off your clothes right now and take you like the animal you’ve made me. Tell me you want me to.” I shift from her mouth to the curve of her neck, chuckling when she shivers in my arms.
“Yes…yes…yes tear it off.”
I’m still chuckling. She doesn’t know it yet, but it’s my coping mechanism around her right now—laughing to ease my anxiety because I know if she looks at me a certain way, I’ll come for her like a goddamn teenager. That’s how much her body ignites mine.
"We’re in public, baby. Aren’t you shy? Or worried?" I tease.
It takes her a second to catch up with me, my tongue swirling circles across the smooth expanse of her neck and behind her ear, but she does. "Oh, fuck you. Stop playing with me."
I drag my lips back to hers and press my forehead against hers. She’s on her tiptoes, straining to kiss me again despite her annoyance and frustration. Our breaths intermingle as I capture the very essence of her, breathing in her scent and tasting her on my tongue.