“I started having questions when I was… ten, I think? The excuse for having my bodyguard Michael follow me 24/7 was that he was concerned someone might try to kidnap me for ransom. As it turned out, Michael foiled three kidnapping attempts, but they didn’t want money, heavens no, they wanted things from my father. He’s the chair of the Energy & Commerce Committee and you would not believe the shit he’s shoved through on a vote.”
“It is a very useful committee for organized crime,” Dario agreed pleasantly.
“I’m so happy my father’s inexcusable violation of all that is decent and good is convenient for you,” I said dryly.
He chuckles in an utterly infuriating way and opens a bottle of wine from the Toscano Vineyard, offering it to me. “Try this, it’s a Pinot Bianco, we’re developing a new series of vines.”
Taking a cautious sip, I groan with pleasure. “This is so good.” I glance at him and my fight or flight instinct instantly kicks in. He’s sitting rigidly in his chair; I can see his cock swelling in his dress pants and his fist is clenched around his wine glass. If his grip gets any tighter we’re both getting sprayed with a shower of glass. “Hey, Dario? Are you in there?”
“Don’t make that woman noise again unless I can fuck you, right here and now,” he said hoarsely. “Do you hear me?”
I’m wide-eyed, clutching my wine glass to my chest as if that’s going to protect me. “Uh, okay. I’ll work on that.”
He drains his glass, takes a deep breath, and focuses on me again. “So how long have your dad and that Santos bastard been buddies?”
“Longer than I’ve suspected,” I admitted. “I remember going to Brazil a couple of times, my parents took me to fill out the ‘perfect family’ photo ops. You’ll enjoy this. My father runs a charity in Brazil that helps women develop their own businesses. I’m certain he’s running dirty money through it because he could not give a rat’s ass about anyone not powerful enough to be of use to him.”
I’m restless and I stand up, hoping that walking around will make this easier. “I think he and Santos were in business together by then. Dad invested in a chain of steakhouses Santos owns, he ships in beef from his cattle in Brazil, the ones that are decimating the rainforest.”
“Yeah, he really sucks,” Dario agrees.
“What leverage are you planning to use on my father?” I ask curiously, “Believe me, he despises me now, and when he finds out he can’t marry me off to Santos, he’s really going to hate my guts.”
“Your dad is obsessed with his image,” Dario said, toying with his wine glass. “When we make a huge public fuss with our elopement, he and your mother will have no choice but to pretend this is the best match ever to hit Boston society.” He smiles smugly, “The Toscanos have an excellent reputation stateside. I’m considered quite a catch.”
“Are you even embarrassed by how arrogant you are?” I ask incredulously. There is self-confidence, and then there is this insane, armor-plated belief in his own magnificence that my husband seems imbued with.
Dario shrugged elegantly, looking ridiculously hot with his suit jacket off and his sleeves rolled up. The tattoos stand out when he moves his arms, muscles flexing under his golden skin… they’re like porn. I know I shouldn’t watch, but I just can’t look away. “So, when did you realize just how bad it was?”
“I was trying to finish a paper for school, so I was up late. I went downstairs to get something to eat and his study door was open. He was talking to someone and he said, ‘I want that bitch dead.’ I just… froze, I guess and I heard the rest of the conversation, including the name of this person he hated so much, she was a reporter forThe Washington Post.” I hold out my glass and he silently fills it to the brim.
“So the next day, when I heard her name in a news report and that she had died tragically from a heart attack at the young age of thirty-seven-”
“Potassium chloride,” Dario nodded.
“What?”
“Potassium chloride,” he elaborated. “Injected, it stops the heart and simulates the effects of a heart attack. Very subtle, hard to prove.”
“I…” I shake my head, “I don’t want to hear how you know that. We’re going to pretend you didn’t just volunteer that information. Anyway, that’s the first person I was certain my dad had killed. But she wasn’t the last. I was fourteen. I should have called the police, but I…” Rubbing my forehead, I try to wipe the image of my father’s sneering face away. “The chief of police had dinner at our house, the head of the FBI, even a certain Supreme Court Judge who is a complete asshole.” He raised an eyebrow and I nodded. “Yeah, you know which one I mean.”
“You didn’t really have any options,Bellissima, though I’m sure you know that,” he said. It sounds like sympathy but it’s hard to believe Dario, the Mafioso supermodel, can even recognize that emotion at this point.
“Yeah, well… I tried putting together some evidence once, something I could send anonymously to the Department of Homeland Security. Michael intercepted it and told me that my father would have tracked it back to me almost instantly. I’ve never seen him so upset; he made me promise to never try it again. He said my father is too powerful to bring down.” Burying my face in my hands, I took a deep breath.
Dario scoops me off my seat and into his lap in seconds. “It’s not your fault,ragazza dolce, sweet girl. I can promise most of the people he had killed were just as dirty as he is. I will keep you safe, okay? He can’t hurt you.”
I stare at his unreasonably beautiful face, his chiseled cheekbones, and those beautiful amber eyes under dark straight brows. He looks as serious right now as I’d ever seen him, and I try to smile. I know he believes that.
I wish I could.
Chapter Thirteen
In which Deconstructed is both a metaphor and a sex club.
Cora…
Why am I not surprised that Dario has a home in Seaport? At first, I assumed he would settle in Beacon Hill, with all the other Old Money types. But the Seaport District is a reclaimed neighborhood, now filled with spectacular art galleries, clubs and restaurants, and glittering high-rises with ludicrously expensive apartments.
