Dario wanted to bring me breakfast in bed, but I woke up in so much pain that I knew if I didn’t get up and move, I might never get out of bed again. After a very long shower, I pulled on a sundress and walked slowly into the kitchen.
The kitchen is one of my favorite rooms in his giant penthouse. It’s entertaining how outrageously well-equipped it was, given that I doubt Dario had ever cooked a meal here. The only thing I’d seen in action was the microwave as he heated up the pre-made meals his cook prepared for us every few days.
There was a huge bank of windows, and long slabs of granite counters so one could prepare meals and enjoy the view, and a small vertical garden on one wall with beautiful green herbs happily growing in their perches. They softened the elaborate stainless steel Viking stove, double dishwashers, and the refrigerator.
I love to cook. My fingers itched to try out that stove. But I’m not staying, this is temporary. I won’t get attached to anything.
Dario was sitting at the rustic harvest table, scrolling through something on his laptop and drinking coffee.
“Is there any more of that?” I asked shyly, feeling awkward and visible in the bright sun shining through the windows lining the kitchen. My face looks terrible, with gray, red, and purple bruises blooming across my skin. I’m just happy the swelling went down on my eye so I can see properly again.
He looks up, nodding toward the counter and pushing a chair out invitingly with his foot. “Help yourself.”
It might have looked like callousness to anyone else, but it warmed my heart. He knew I didn’t want to be treated like a little broken doll, traumatized yet again by bad luck and bad men. He’s treating me like I’m capable of taking a punch and getting back up again.
Of course, that’s usually figurative and not literal, but I’m grateful he gets it.
“There’s bagels on the counter and a watermelon salad in the fridge,” he offered, still absorbed with his laptop.
“Thank you. What are you working on?” I was determined to get him to talk to me, I don’t want to be one of those wives who refused to see what was happening right in front of me. My mother was a prime example of that.
“I’m looking over the numbers for the new hotel and a couple of our restaurants,” he said absently.
“How many properties do you have here?” I asked, since the number seemed to grow every time he casually threw out a bit of information.
“Eight restaurants, a couple of gourmet grocery stores, several warehouses, a trucking company, and of course the new hotel and club,” he said, finishing his coffee. “I handled all the buying and selling, but with the new properties, it’s finally at a point where our properties here need full supervision.”
“Wow,” I’m a little startled. I was picturing seedy pawnshops and maybe a contract for the waste disposal for the city. Apparently, I’ve been watching too much bad TV.
Closing his laptop, Dario stood and pulled on his suit jacket. “I have to go make the rounds,Bellissima.There’s a pool and a hot tub just out the back entrance, why don’t you take a swim and relax?”
“How’s Davide?” It bursts out of me and I feel foolish. He’s going to think I’m trying to keep him here, like I’m afraid to be alone.
He stops, walking back to me. “He’s good. I got an update from Dr. Longo this morning. She was surprised at how well he was doing, in fact.”
Closing my eyes, I whispered, “I’m so glad. No one else should have to die for me.”
“You need to understand that Davide didn’t get shot because of you. Michael didn’t die because of you. They knowingly pledged their lives to protect yours. Michael was killed by your piece of shit father. His death is on his head, not yours.” He’s holding my hands, crouching in front of me. He’s so tall that we’re eye to eye and he tilts his head, forcing me to look at him. “You can’t take this on your conscience, it is no more your fault than those poor girls were, back in Schmidt’s basement. You can’t control the actions of evil men.”
He smiled and the Dario I knew came through, “You can only kill them. Ideally, slowly, and painfully.”
I must look horrified because he raises a brow, “Too much information?”
“No…” I said, trying to sound like this is of course the correct action, “Uh, thanks.”
“Good!” Dario’s all business again as he checks his watch, a shiny Patek Philippe, the kind that costs around a quarter of a million dollars, my dad had six of them. “If you feel like you want to get out of here, I have Gino and Mattia here, they can go on a walk with you, take you shopping. You’ve met them both before, so they’re familiar faces. They’re also two of my best men.”
“Do you really think I need that much security?” I asked, “I mean, Santos is dead now.”
“It can’t hurt,” he shrugged. “Pretend they’re your entourage.” He winks, straightens his tie, and leaves.
It’s not until later that I realize he didn’t kiss me.
Dario’s absence that day means I can spend it snooping.
I feel as if I know absolutely nothing about him or his life, reduced to Googling him to learn more, and that was a mistake. Most of the images had one or more extremely hot women hanging onto him. He clearly plays the part of the indolent playboy very well.
To my surprise, there are pictures of us from last night at the Gala. Dario is smiling, white teeth sparkling and he’s looking down at me in every shot. Protectively, which in light of recent events is really lovely. I’m smiling and I have my ‘I’m so thrilled to be here’ professional expression in place, though this time, it looks genuine. There’s one image where the photographer zeroed in on my wedding ring, enlarging it, and then his. I click on the link on the image to the story on TMZ.
