Her smile was all teeth. "Come now, Dario. Christmas is for family, isn't it? And we were practically that." Her gaze shifted to me, traveling from my face down to my shoes and back up in a deliberate assessment. "How adorable. Playing dress up in Dario's world. The clothes may be designer, darling, but they can't hide what you really are."
I felt Dario tense beside me, ready to intervene, but I placed a restraining hand on his arm. Three months ago, I would have shrunk from this confrontation. Tonight, I met her eyes steadily.
"And what am I exactly, Valentina?" My voice came out calm, even curious.
"A novelty," she replied, venom dripping from every syllable. "A little pet project he'll tire of once the shine wears off. Men like Dario always come back to women like me. We understand their world because we were born to it. You're just temporaryentertainment, a working class curiosity he's indulging until reality sets in."
"You're embarrassing yourself," Dario cut in, his voice deadly quiet. "Leave. Now."
Valentina's perfect features twisted. "You replaced me with a fucking bartender." She spat the last word like it was filth in her mouth. "Does she even know what you are? What you've done? Or have you been playing house, pretending you're not a—"
"Enough," I interrupted, surprising myself with my steadiness. "Dario didn't replace you with me, Valentina. He chose me. There's a difference." I smiled, almost pitying her now. "And yes, I know exactly who he is. All of him. That's why I'm here, and you're not."
Something snapped behind her eyes. That last thread of restraint giving way to pure hatred. Her hand moved so quickly I barely registered it, a flash of silver appearing between her manicured fingers. "You stupid little bitch," she hissed, lunging toward me.
Everything happened in fragments of seconds. Dario shoving me behind him. The blade arcing through the air. Dario's hand coming up, catching Valentina's wrist but not before the knife sliced across his palm. Bright red blood dripped onto the white, polished marble floor.
I cried out, but the sound was lost in the sudden chaos. Security materialized from every corner. Marcus reached us first, his normally impassive face tight with controlled rage. Two more guards seized Valentina, who thrashed against their grip, her perfect coiffure coming undone as she struggled.
"You're dead!" she shrieked, her voice unrecognizable from the cultured tones of moments before. "Do you hear me? Dead! He can't protect you forever!"
They dragged her toward the exit, her threats echoing off the vaulted ceilings. I turned to Dario, my hands shaking as Ireached for his injured one. Blood welled from a deep cut across his palm, dripping between his fingers.
"You're hurt," I said stupidly, panic rising in my throat.
Dario's expression was terrifyingly calm, his eyes following Valentina's struggling form. "It's nothing," he said, though the blood soaking into his white cuff suggested otherwise. "Are you alright?"
I nodded, unable to form words, my heart still racing from the suddenness of the attack. A white cloth appeared as Marcus offered a handkerchief. Dario wrapped it around his palm, the fabric immediately blooming with red.
The most unsettling part came next. Within seconds the party resumed as if nothing happened. Staff appeared to clean the blood from the floor. Glasses clinked, conversation flowed, music played. The only evidence of the violence was the white cloth around Dario's hand and the lingering adrenaline making my legs unsteady beneath me.
"How are they all just... continuing?" I whispered, stunned by the collective pretense that everything was normal.
Dario's uninjured hand found the small of my back, steadying me. "Because this is my world, Belle. My family controls what happens here. If we say nothing happened, then nothing happened."
I looked around at the smiling faces, the dancing couples, the business being conducted in corners, and understood with sudden clarity the true extent of the Luca family's power. It wasn't just in their wealth or their connections or even their willingness to use violence. What had me in awe came from Dario’s ability to shape reality itself for everyone in their orbit. Some people were better with the skill than others, but all the Luca’s seemed to have honed it to perfection.
Dario leaned close, his lips brushing my ear. "Let's go home."
The car ride back to Villa Luca passed in tense silence, Dario's bandaged hand resting on his thigh, his profile sharp against the passing city lights. Blood had seeped through the makeshift bandage, a stark reminder of how quickly beauty had turned to violence. I kept my eyes on that crimson stain, my mind replaying the flash of the blade, the moment Dario had stepped between me and danger without hesitation. When we finally passed through the gates of Villa Luca, the mansion glowed with the Christmas lights I'd strung everywhere, the sight both surreal and comforting after the chaos we'd left behind.
We didn't speak as we entered through the main doors, the staff discreetly melting away at a slight nod from Dario. His good hand pressed against the small of my back, guiding me toward our private wing. The tension between us vibrated like a plucked string, neither of us quite ready to break the silence that had enveloped us since leavingThe Gray.
Once inside our suite, I turned to him, reaching for his injured hand. "Let me," I said softly, the first words either of us had spoken since the car.
He watched me with those impossible blue eyes as I led him to the bathroom, his expression unreadable. I carefully unwrapped Marcus's handkerchief, wincing at the deep gash across his palm. Blood welled fresh as the cloth came away.
"It needs stitches," I murmured, reaching for the extensive first aid kit we kept stocked in our bathroom. Another reminder of the dangerous world I now inhabited.
"It's fine, baby," Dario replied, his voice low and gentle. "Just clean it.”
I ran warm water over the wound, watching his face for signs of pain. He didn't flinch, didn't even tense, though I knew it must hurt like hell. His ability to compartmentalize pain both impressed and unnerved me. I wondered how many wounds hehad treated alone before I came into his life, how many times he'd stitched himself up rather than show weakness.
I patted the skin dry with a clean towel, then applied antiseptic. This time his fingers twitched slightly, the only acknowledgment of the sting. As I wrapped fresh gauze around his hand, securing it with medical tape, I noticed his gaze hadn't left my face once.
"You're good at this," he said.
I shrugged slightly. "When you grow up without health insurance, you learn a few things."
