Dario didn't move immediately. His eyes held mine for another breathless moment before he finally released my hand and rose to his feet in one fluid motion. I felt the loss of his touch like a physical thing, my skin suddenly cold where his had been warm.
I scrambled up awkwardly, my wet uniform clinging uncomfortably to my knees. Blood from my cut hands had smeared in places on my hands and arms. I must have looked like a complete disaster, standing there trembling in front of him.
"I'm—I'm so sorry," I stammered again, unable to think of anything else to say as I lowered my gaze. My cheeks burned with embarrassment. "About your suit. Your shoes. Everything."
Dario glanced down at his ruined clothing as if noticing it for the first time. His expression remained unreadable, but something about the set of his shoulders seemed less rigid than before. "It's just fabric," he said finally. His gaze returned to mine, searching for something I couldn't identify. "Go get those cuts taken care of." Though his voice was soft, kind even, I’d hadn’t been issued a suggestion. Even in this strange moment, his words carried the unmistakable weight of command. I nodded quickly, backing away from him, from the mess, from the crowd that still watched us with undisguised interest.
"Yes, sir.” The words came automatically but the delivery didn’t make them any less earnest. I turned and hurried toward the service area, weaving between tables with far less grace than I'd shown earlier.
The weight of his gaze followed me. I didn't turn around. Didn't need to. I felt that stare between my shoulder blades, intense and unwavering as I retreated. My skin tingled with awareness, my body somehow attuned to his attention in a way I'd never experienced before.
I pushed through the swinging doors into the service corridor and immediately leaned against the wall, my heart pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat. What had just happened out there? Why had Dario Luca, a man known for his coldness, his ruthlessness, knelt beside me on a wet floor? Why had he looked at me like I was a puzzle he couldn't quite solve? And why, despite the disaster, despite my near, certain termination, despite everything, why did my body still hum with electricity where his fingers had touched mine?
I looked down at my shaking, bleeding hands and wondered if I'd imagined the whole thing, if the shock of the moment had somehow distorted my perception. But the memory of his blue eyes, of the unexpected gentleness in his voice, felt more real than anything else in the chaos of the evening.
I pushed myself away from the wall. Whatever had just happened, I still had a job. For now. Or, at least, I hadn’t been fired yet. I was taking the win until the score was overturned after review. Or something like that. Right now, though, I needed to clean up, bandage my hands, get back out there before anyone decided I was shirking my duties. But as I made my way to the employee restroom, I couldn't shake the feeling that something fundamental had shifted, that the world I'd been navigating for the past two weeks had subtly but irrevocably changed.
Chapter Four
Dario
I sat in stony silence at our family's private table, drumming an impatient rhythm against the polished surface with my fingertips. Vittorio lounged across from me, his relaxed posture at odds with the calculating look in his eyes. The exclusive section ofThe Grayoffered us privacy from prying eyes, but not from each other. My brother knew me too well, had already noticed something was off. My mind kept returning to those delicate hands trembling as they gathered broken crystal, to green eyes swimming with tears, to the jolt I felt when our fingers touched.
"You're distracted," Vittorio observed, his voice casual but his gaze sharp. He swirled amber liquid in his glass, the same whiskey that now stained my pant legs. "Something on your mind, brother?"
I shot him a cold look. "The Rossi situation. Vincent's making moves we need to address."
"Bullshit," Vittorio replied with a small smile. "You haven't heard a word I've said about the shipment issue for the past fifteen minutes. Your mind is elsewhere." He leaned forward, lowering his voice. "With a certain clumsy waitress, perhaps?"
"Don't start," I warned, but my brother merely raised an eyebrow.
"Interesting reaction from a man who typically disposes of incompetent staff without a second thought." Vittorio took a measured sip of his drink. "Yet you knelt in spilled whisky worth more than she makes in a month to help her."
I remained silent. What could I say? That something about her vulnerability had pierced through my carefully constructed armor? That the fear in her eyes had bothered me in ways I couldn't explain? That the electric current I felt when our skin touched was unlike anything I'd experienced before?
"She was terrified," I said finally, keeping my voice neutral. "Firing her would have been... excessive."
"Excessive," Vittorio repeated with amusement. "Since when has Dario Luca concerned himself with moderation when it comes to maintaining standards atThe Gray?" I really had nothing to say to that statement. "Go check on the new waitress.” The smile on his face made me want to scratch his eyeballs out. "Make sure she doesn't sue or anything. Those cuts looked nasty."
“You’re an ass, Vittorio.” His laughter followed me as I rose from my chair, straightening my suit jacket with more force than necessary.
"Where are you going?" he called after me.
"To handle something," I replied without turning. I heard him chuckle again before the heavy door closed behind me, muffling the sound.
My jaw tightened as I strode through the main floor ofThe Gray. The truth was, I had been thinking about checking onBelle. The look of defeat in her eyes as she backed away from the scene had stayed with me, nagging at my conscience in a way I found both irritating and impossible to ignore. But Vittorio's teasing had nearly made me reconsider. Nearly. And, Goddamnit, I should have seen to her injuries myself. I ground my teeth. Pride. This was all about pride. I’d never wanted to take a woman for myself and now I was too stubborn to admit I might have been wrong.
No. I wasn’t there yet.
I nodded to the security personnel stationed discreetly throughout the club. The main floor was a different world from the one I was headed toward. Here, everything gleamed with expensive authenticity. The lighting was designed to flatter, the acoustics engineered to allow conversation while maintaining privacy. Wealthy patrons sprawled in plush booths, indolent and at ease, or lingered by the bar, movements languid, their every gesture weighted with privilege. The air hummed with rich laughter. The space enveloped them in luxury that most took for granted but that had been meticulously created to project power and exclusivity.
I reached the nondescript door that separated this glittering fantasy from the utilitarian reality of running such an operation. My fingerprint granted me access, and I stepped into a different world.
The stark fluorescent lighting of the service corridor was a jarring transition from the amber glow of the club. Here, the walls were a practical off-white, the floors designed for comfort for the staff and durability. The air smelled of the food they were preparing in the kitchen rather than expensive perfumes and aged spirits.
A staff member carrying a stack of clean bar towels froze when she saw me, her eyes widening in surprise. "Mr. Luca," she stammered, pressing herself against the wall to let me pass.
I nodded in acknowledgment but didn't slow my pace. Behind me, I heard her rushed footsteps retreat in the opposite direction, no doubt to spread word of my unexpected appearance in the staff area.
