72

MILLIE
Dario and I found ourselves traversing the labyrinthine streets of New York City for what felt like an eternity, nearing the two-hour mark. Restlessness had begun to claw at my nerves, and I couldn’t help but notice how Dario’s fingers clenched around the steering wheel with an escalating intensity. This was no ordinary rendezvous of the Famiglia; Gio must have had some compelling reasons to implement such elaborate precautions.
As the car inched forward through the congested traffic, my gaze was drawn upwards to the imposing Flatiron Building. I hoped that fixating on the architecture would divert my attention from the rising tide of panic within me. Unfortunately, my efforts proved futile.
“Gio is resilient, Millie,” Dario’s voice cut through my anxious thoughts, attempting to offer reassurance. Yet, his words struggled to assuage the deep-seated fears that had taken root within me. His once immaculate brown hair now bore the unmistakable signs of his agitated hands running through it repeatedly. Strangely, his display of nerves only managed to amplify my own.
Two hours had ticked by.
Dread gnawed at me-what if Gio didn’t emerge from this unscathed?
In a subtle moment, Dario’s mobile phone chimed, prompting him to retrieve it from his pocket. His eyes darted down to the screen momentarily before returning to the road ahead, and a palpable wave of tension seemed to dissipate from him. A smile graced his lips, and with a sigh of relief, he announced, “Everything’s under control. We can head back home.”
I slumped back into my seat, overcome by a wave of emotion. With trembling fingers, I pressed my hand against my lips, my eyes squeezed shut to ward off the tears of relief threatening to escape. When I eventually reopened my eyes, Dario was regarding me with a subtle yet unmistakable surprise in his gaze, before his attention returned to the road ahead.
“Why?” My voice was soft, almost a whisper. “Why are you taken aback?”
He hesitated for a moment, choosing his words carefully. “Few had confidence in your ability to adapt to life as Gio’s spouse. Some even speculated you might secretly rejoice at his downfall,” he confessed.
“And what about you?” I inquired, a hint of urgency in my voice.
He shrugged, a gesture that held a complexity of unspoken thoughts.
“Dario, I deserve the truth,” I insisted, my tone unwavering.
“When I first laid eyes on you, you were just fifteen. I felt a twinge of pity for you, though don’t misunderstand me. My respect for Gio knows no bounds; he’s my Capo. Yet, I’ve fought alongside him for years, witnessed firsthand the trials Agatone Merante subjected both Gio and Sebastian to. Gio was molded from birth to assume the mantle of Capo.”
“I am fully aware of his nature,” I interjected firmly, my voice betraying my conviction. “And I love him.”
A tender smile tugged at the corners of Dario’s lips, his warm brown eyes exuding understanding. “I know you do. Your devotion became starkly evident when you took that bullet meant for him. But even so, it catches me off guard at times.”
“Same here,” I confessed with a soft chuckle, for not too long ago, I too had been among those who believed that being a young widow might be a liberation of sorts.
“He’d move mountains for you, you know?” Dario mused.
I frowned, my expression puzzled. “As long as it doesn’t jeopardize the Famiglia.”
A wry smile danced upon Dario’s lips, laden with irony, yet he chose to remain silent.
~*~
As the late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the room, I found myself engrossed in the pages of a travel magazine that painted vibrant images of Italy’s southern charm. My fingers traced the glossy paper, imagining the places I longed to visit. The tranquility of the moment was shattered when the door clicked open, revealing Gio’s silhouette against the fading light.
A peculiar darkness seemed to cloud his eyes, a stark contrast to the golden hour’s warm embrace. The meeting with the Famiglia had left its mark on him, one I could feel even before he entered the room. My heart raced, and abandoning the magazine on the couch, I hurried to him.
Dario’s departure was my signal; without hesitation, I enveloped Gio in a tight embrace, seeking solace in the familiarity of his arms. His scent, a mixture of musk and strength, calmed my racing thoughts, yet it couldn’t mask the underlying metallic tang of blood. I nuzzled my head against his chest, concern mounting.
The silence between us was heavy, yet his touch spoke volumes. Fingers threaded through my hair, an affectionate gesture that offered more reassurance than words could convey. Summoning my courage, I clasped his hand, soft lips pressing against his knuckles. But the tenderness of the moment was juxtaposed by the dried streaks of blood that marred his skin, stark against the paleness of his fingers. A reflexive shiver coursed through me, a reaction I struggled to conceal. Bloodshed was not unfamiliar within our world-stains had adorned Gio’s attire and marked our surroundings after the brutal Bratva attack-but this was different, unexpected.
Gio winced, withdrawing his hand, his pained expression drawing my gaze. Concern etched deeper lines into my brow as I met his eyes. The question leaped from my lips, concern coating my breathless voice like a whisper carried on the wind. “Are you all right?”
His lips remained sealed, but his touch lingered, a silent response. Seeking answers, I reclaimed his hand, a gesture that communicated both understanding and a willingness to share the burden. Inches apart, I implored him to confide in me, to unravel the shadows that danced across his features. My voice, laced with sincerity, held a promise: I was his confidante, unwavering and unyielding.
But he hesitated, the weight of his experiences evident in the tension that flickered across his gaze. Determined, I bridged the gap between us, grounding my plea with proximity. Our fingers intertwined, a connection that transcended the unease. “Please tell me,” I urged gently, my voice a soothing balm against his apprehensions. “You can trust me.”
His reply carried the weight of vulnerability, a glimpse into a world he had long kept shielded from me. “I don’t want to sully you with the horrors of my life.”
My heart ached at the admission, a reminder of the chasm that separated his reality from mine. With unwavering determination, I met his gaze, unwavering. “Your horrors don’t scare me,” I affirmed, conviction underscoring my words. “I’m here to help you bear them.”
Doubt lingered in his eyes, the fortress around his emotions seemingly unyielding. Yet, despite his reservations, he began to speak, unraveling the tapestry of his day. “I had to make a bloody statement at the meeting today.”
“Bloody statement,” I echoed, the term resonating with a sense of grim familiarity. The implications were clear. “You took someone’s life-a soldier under your command.”
A caress traced the curve of my cheek, the gesture laden with complexities beyond the words spoken. His touch continued its exploration, mapping the landscape of my skin, a silent testament to the passage of time and experiences shared. The words that followed were a whisper, laden with shadows of reminiscence. “So innocent.”
My lips curved into a teasing smile, a playful retort intended to break the gravity of the moment. “Not that innocent anymore, thanks to you.” The words carried a dual meaning, a flirtatious nod to our shared intimacy and a reminder of the darkness that had seeped into my understanding of the world.
A somber nod was his response, his eyes betraying a swirl of emotions that spanned remorse and regret. “I still remember the first time I saw you,” he murmured, his voice laced with memories of a past I had yet to fully comprehend. “You were but a child.”