Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
STEVIE
His shirt clings to my thighs. My dignity is face down in his closet. We’re all making choices.
The kitchen smells like espresso.
Dario’s at the counter, moving with that precise, controlled grace I remember from the restaurant. Every motion economical. He handles the espresso machine like it’s an extension of his hands.
I hover in the doorway.
Extremely aware of the fact that I’m about to have a conversation with a man while wearing his clothes and he’s just... okay with that apparently.
“Sit,” he says without looking up.
I’m freshly fucked by my own hand in this man’s bed, sitting in his shirt, watching him make espresso like this isn’t the opening scene of a porno I would absolutely watch on loop. My thighs are still sticky. My brain is soup.
And he’s over there handling glassware like foreplay.
He finishes making two affogatos and sets one in front of me before taking the stool across from me with his own.
We’re separated by granite countertop and three feet of charged air.
I take a spoonful. Focus on the taste because if I focus on him, I’m going to combust.
Hot and cold. Bitter and sweet. Perfect.
“Thank you,” I manage.
“You brought amaretti.” He gestures to my container. “Those take time.”
“I wanted them to be good.”
“They will be.” He takes a bite of his own affogato. “Everything you make is good.”
“How would you know? You’ve only had.” I stop. Do math. “Okay, three batches of cookies and some candy. But still.”
The corner of his mouth lifts. Almost a smile.
He almost smiled at me.
I made Dario Marchetti almost smile.
“This is... very inappropriate,” I blurt. “You making me dessert while I’m dressed like your emotionally unstable housewife.”
He doesn’t even blink. “Should I stop?”
“No. Absolutely not. If you stop, I’ll die. I’m just saying it out loud so God hears me.”
We eat in silence for a moment. The only sound is spoons against glass and my internal monologue having a complete meltdown.
“Why do you keep coming back?” he asks.
The question is quiet. Curious. Not accusatory.
I set down my spoon. Look at my hands because looking at him is too much.
“Because you need to know,” I say slowly, trying to find words for something I’ve only ever felt. “That someone thinks about you. Outside of... all the other stuff. The family stuff. The crime stuff.” I risk a glance at him.
He goes very still.
“You stayed with me,” I continue. “At the restaurant. When you should have run. You made sure I could breathe before you thought about saving yourself.” My voice cracks slightly. “No one sees me. Not really. But you did. You looked right at me and you stayed.”
“Stevie.”
“So I see you too.” I finally meet his eyes.
Hold them. “Not the defendant. Not the crime family. Just Dario. Who eats pasta methodically and makes tiramisu and leaves his door unlocked.” I swallow hard.
“I can’t stay away. I’ve tried. But being Beth is killing me and at least when I’m here I feel like I exist.”
The silence stretches.
He’s looking at me with an intensity that makes my skin feel too tight. Like he’s seeing past the shirt and the blonde hair and the witness protection straight into something underneath.
“Why?” I ask, because I need to know. “At the restaurant. Why were you kind to me? You could have left. Should have left.”
He’s quiet for a long moment. When he speaks, his voice is lower than before.
“You looked at me,” he says. “Like I could be soft. Like I was still a person under the blood and reputation.” He swallows. “No one’s looked at me like that in years.”
My lungs forget how to lung.
“I’ve spent my entire life being looked at with fear,” he continues. “Suspicion. Calculation. People trying to figure out what I want from them, what I’ll do to them. But you.” He shakes his head slightly. “You looked at me like kindness was something I was capable of.”
“You were kind.”
“Because you expected me to be.” His eyes hold mine. “I couldn’t leave after that. Not when you looked at me like that.”
The band around my lungs finally gives.
“And the chocolates?” I manage.
“You sent me cookies. With an apology. Who does that? Who sees the man they saw commit a crime and thinks he needs to know I’m sorry?” The almost-smile again.
Who does that? “Someone who pays too much attention.”
“Someone who sees people,” he corrects quietly. “You see people. The real ones underneath. Most people can’t do that. Most people don’t want to.”
We sit with that for a moment. The affogato melting slowly. The kitchen warm with afternoon light.
“I sent Enzo,” he says eventually. “Because you’re not safe doing this. Coming here.” He pauses. “I sent him before you came back. I needed to know you were okay.”
“You could have just asked.”
“How?” He raises an eyebrow. “Call your U.S. Marshal and say ‘hey, how’s the witness who testified against me doing?’”
I laugh.
His expression softens at the sound.
“Enzo was the only way,” he continues. “Someone I trust. Someone who could watch without being seen.” He pauses. “Someone who would tell me if you were struggling.”
“He said you were worried about me.”
“I was. I am.” His voice drops. “You keep risking everything to come here. To bring me cookies and wear my cologne and.” His eyes flick to his shirt on my body. “Apparently raid my closet.”
My face heats. That’s not the half of it. “The closet thing is a recent development.”
“Enzo mentioned the tie.”
“Enzo has a big mouth.”
“Enzo,” Dario says carefully, “talks about you constantly.”
Something shifts in the air between us.
“He’s been watching me,” I say. “He told me.”
“He’s been doing more than watching.” Dario’s expression is unreadable. “He cares about you.”
My heart hammers. “I know.”
“And you?”
I could lie. Could deflect. Could pretend I haven’t thought about Enzo’s laugh and his scarred hands and the way he looked at me in that diner.
But Dario’s looking at me like he already knows the answer.
“I like him,” I admit quietly. “More than makes sense.”
I wait for anger. Jealousy. Something possessive and dangerous.
Dario just nods slowly.
“Good,” he says.
I blink. “Good?”
“Enzo’s good people. Better than most of us.” He takes another bite of affogato. “He’s not used to being seen as anything but muscle. It matters that you see him differently.”
“You’re not... bothered?”
“Should I be?” He meets my eyes. “You’re not mine. You’re not anyone’s.” He shrugs. “If Enzo makes you feel something real? That’s a good thing. You deserve to feel something real.”
Nothing about my life makes sense anymore.
“This is weird,” I say finally. “This whole situation. You know that, right?”
The almost-smile becomes an actual smile. Small. Brief. But real.
“Extremely weird,” he agrees.
We finish our affogato in something like comfortable silence.
“Tuesday and Thursday,” he says eventually. “Two to four. I’ll be out. The door will be unlocked.” He pauses. “You can come. Be here. Safely.”
“You’re giving me a schedule?”
“I’m giving you permission to stop breaking in at random.” His eyes hold mine. “Though you’re welcome to keep doing it your way if you prefer. The cameras are entertaining.”
The cameras. He’s going to see.
Good.
“And if I want to see you?” I ask. “Not just your house. You.”
“Wednesdays.” His voice drops slightly. “Come Wednesday. I’ll be here.”
He’s giving me days with him and days without. Space to exist in his world however I need to.
“Is there anything you want?” he asks. “Anything that would make this easier. Books. Music. Specific food. I’ll make sure it’s here.”
My throat tightens. “I don’t know. I’ll think about it.”
“Okay.” He stands. Takes our glasses to the sink. “You should probably go before it gets late. Long drive.”
Right. The drive. Back to being Beth.
I slide off the stool. His shirt swishes against my thighs.
“You can keep that,” he says, noticing. “The shirt. If you want.”
I look down at myself. At his clothes on my body.
“My shirt’s upstairs.”
“I’ll keep it then.” He steps a fraction closer. Doesn’t touch me, but I feel it. “Fair trade,” he says. “You walk around wrapped in me. I keep a piece of you upstairs.”
My breath goes sideways. That’s not innuendo. That’s a fucking spell.
I head toward the door. He follows. Keeping distance but staying close.
At the front door, I pause. Turn back.
He’s standing a few feet away. Hands in his pockets. Looking at me like I’m something he can’t quite figure out but wants to.
“Wednesday,” I say.
“Wednesday,” he confirms.
“I’ll be here.”
“I know.”
I don’t know who moves first. Maybe we both do.
One step. Then another.
He’s in front of me. So close I can feel the heat coming off his skin, smell the espresso on his breath, the cologne still clinging to his shirt, my shirt now.
His hands stay in his pockets like he doesn’t trust them. Like touching me would be a mistake he wouldn’t come back from.
“Dario,” I whisper, already breathless.
He tilts his head, the barest shift. “Yes?”
“You can kiss me now.”
The change is instant.
One hand lifts to my jaw. Gentle at first. Then firmer. Tilting my face up to his. His thumb brushes over my lower lip, testing the weight of his own restraint.
And then his mouth crashes into mine, not soft, not gentle, but starved.
His lips are hot and demanding. His mouth opens over mine, trying to memorize the shape of me with his tongue.
I make a noise, somewhere between a moan and a threat, and fist my hands in his shirt, dragging him closer. I want to unzip him and crawl inside.
He pushes me back a half-step against the wall by the door, crowding me in, his thigh between mine, his body all heat and muscle and low-simmering danger.
I grind against his leg like a girl who forgot what shame is.
He kisses like he holds knives, carefully, but he could cut you open and make you love it.
And I do.
I arch into him. Bite his bottom lip. He groans into my mouth and the sound makes my whole spine light up.
When he finally pulls back, I chase him.
I don’t want the kiss to end.
“Stevie,” he says, and it’s wrecked.
I rock against his thigh again.
His jaw tightens. His thigh shifts instinctively, pressure exactly where I need it.
That’s it. That’s the permission my body takes.
I move against him, grinding harder now, chasing friction, my breath coming apart, my hands clutching his shoulders. His grip on my hip tightens. His other hand slides into my hair, fist closing, holding me still while I fuck myself on him.
“Fuck,” he breathes.
“I know,” I pant.
He doesn’t stop me. His thigh is solid and unyielding and perfect. His mouth moves to my throat, my collarbone, his teeth scraping just enough to make my pulse jump.
“I want you,” he says into my skin.
“Then fuck me,” I breathe.
He stills. Just for a second. Then his hands slide down to my jeans.
I help, wiggling free.
He rips my panties down my thighs. Fast. Brutal. Gone in a second. Then he unzips. Just enough. His cock springs free, hot and hard and heavy against my thigh.
He lifts me, effortless, decisive, and I wrap my legs around his waist without thinking, my back sliding against the wall as he settles me there.
And then he’s inside me. Fast. Deep. No warning.
I cry out, nails digging into his shoulders. His hands grip my ass, lift me higher, hold me there while he fucks up into me.
“Fuck, Dario.”
He swallows his name with his mouth, his forehead dropping to mine as he moves, every thrust controlled and brutal and exactly right.
The wall thumps softly behind me. My body rocks with every drive of his hips.
I’m so sensitive I can barely take it. Every nerve lit. Every thought gone.
“You feel,” he breaks off, breath ragged. “You feel like this was always meant to happen.”
I can’t answer. I’m too far gone. My legs tighten around him. My body starts to shake.
“I’m close,” I gasp.
“Look at me,” he says.
I do.
His eyes are dark. Ruined. Focused entirely on me.
“Come for me,” he says, low and steady. “Right here.”
I shatter. Hard. Loud. My head drops back against the wall as my whole body spasms around him, clenching, shaking, coming apart.
He groans, deep, broken, and thrusts a few more times before he follows, burying his face in my neck as he comes, holding me like he might never let go.
We stay like that for a long moment.
Pressed together. Breathing hard.
Then reality creeps back in.
Slowly, carefully, he sets me back on my feet.
Neither of us speaks.
My legs are still trembling.
He steadies me with a hand on my hip. “You okay?”
I nod. Can’t form words yet.
His thumb traces a circle against my hipbone. Once. Twice. Then he steps back.
“Drive safe,” he says quietly.
My throat tightens. “Okay.”
He rests his forehead against mine. “Wednesday,” he says hoarsely.
I nod. “Wednesday.”
He steps back first. And I let him. Only because I’d let him do anything.
I reach for my panties.
“Leave them,” he says.
I freeze.
He crouches, picks them up. Folds them like something precious and tucks them in his pocket.
“You keep the shirt,” he says. “I’ll keep these.”
We’re trading pieces of each other like fucking blood oaths.
I step out into the evening air. The light is golden. The neighborhood quiet.
“Goodnight, Dario.”
“Goodnight, Stevie.”
I walk to my car in a daze, his taste still in my mouth.
Get in. Drive away.
And it’s not until I’m on the highway that it fully hits me.
I’m going back Tuesday.
And Thursday.
And definitely Wednesday.
What we did was the mafia equivalent of putting a toothbrush in my mouth and saying, “stay, we’re a thing now.”
Except it’s worse than that.
Because I left a piece of myself in that house. And took a piece of him with me.
And I’m not scared of what that means.
I’m scared of how much I want it.