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My body was too focused on processing the sweetness of his statement. Like a sugar rush, it made my heart race and palpitate.
He stared down at me while I digested, a muscle ticking in his jaw, the three-pronged scar on his cheek nonexistent in the low light of the parking garage. His stubble was thick, on the verge of becoming a short beard, and I loved how the inky hair contrasted with his pale eyes and almost too-pink mouth.
Dio mio, he was beautiful.
“Come,” he said suddenly, tugging my hand and leading me toward the car. “We do not have time for this.”
“Dario, I have to change,” I insisted as he opened the passenger door and practically pushed me inside before rounding the car. I waited for him to hand Stefan the keys to his own car and get into my driver’s seat before adding, “This outfit is not appropriate for whatever event we’re going to tonight. Speaking of, where are we going?”
Dario reversed out of the spot so quickly, I braced myself on the console. He almost always drove himself, even though I knew Lando, Carla, and Cesare all insisted he should be chauffeured around as befitting his station. Unless he had a lot of work to do and wanted to use the time to get it done, my husband was behind the wheel, and he was a demon on the roads. Chicago had relatively heavy traffic, especially on the Loop, but he constantly found a way through the bumper-to-bumper masses, crunching our travel time into dust.
It shouldn’t have been an attractive trait, but I found my thighs clenching as I stared at his veined hands on the wheel and the gearshift, deftly maneuvering us through the streets.
I had a competency kink, but then, I was a woman, so maybe that wasn’t surprising.
“As I said, dinner before the event. We’ll make a stop to get you something appropriate first,” he answered.
I wanted to press, but I could tell by the set of his mouth that he wasn’t inclined to chat, so I plugged my phone into the adapter linked to the radio in the old but perfectly maintained car and played some of my favorite songs to fill the silence.
Dario chuckled under his breath when Lorde’s “Everybody Wants to Rule the World” started to play.
“I’m not surprised this song resonates with you,” I quipped.
He snorted. “There is no ‘want’ about it. Chicago is my world, and I am its ruler.”
“You are so unflappably confident. Doesn’t it rile you knowing someone made a play for your throne yesterday?”
He pursed his lips as he zipped past a slow car and cut in front of them, flipping them the bird in the rearview mirror when they honked at him. “No.”
“No? You believe your power is that absolute?”
“I believe in myself absolutely,” he corrected. “There’s a difference, small but unmistakable. What is in my control is mine, and what isn’t?” He shrugged, but I could see a muscle jump in his jaw. “Well, I endeavor to make it mine to correct that oversight.”
I laughed as I shook my head. “I agree that knowledge is power. I guess in that vein, I don’t understand why you aren’t more . . . upset by what happened yesterday.”
“Upset isn’t the right word. A man like me doesn’t get upset. It implies inaction and self-indulgence. A man like me? He gets revenge. I told you yesterday, that is the purpose of our outing later tonight.”
“Not dinner?” I asked, noting the omission.
I startled slightly when he swung into a miniscule parking spot between two huge SUVs and cut the engine, the sudden silence almost vibrating between us. He turned to study me, and the deepening late-summer shadows made him look singularly sinister.
“Not dinner,” he confirmed finally before levering himself out of the low car with ease and walking around to help me out of my seat.
His hand was cool and rough in mine. I didn’t know how to react when he kept it tucked against his palm as he led us down a street along the Gold Coast. I recognized the designer boutique before we reached it. Dario opened the door for me before following me in, taking the lead to walk us right up to the counter.
“We need an evening gown in a size six,” he told the shopgirl, a gorgeous Hispanic woman who positively beamed at him. “Red, black, or gold if you have it.”
I opened my mouth to protest his bossiness because I should have been able to choose my own outfit, but the truth was, I did favor those colors.
“I have just the thing,” the woman suggested, professional gaze sliding down my frame as she stepped out from the counter to search for the items in question. “If you want to take a changeroom in the back, I’ll bring your wife some choices.”
Dario nodded perfunctorily and stalked toward the fitting rooms with his long stride, almost dragging me along in my sky-high heels.
He paused so abruptly, I ran into his back with a small exhale.
“What?” I asked, peeking around his shoulder to see what had arrested his attention.
It was a dress on a porcelain mannequin. A floor-length gown with an A-line skirt, a deep V-neck all the way to the belly button, and a cutout over the belly, the silken fabric shimmered like fire even in the artificial lights. A combination of swirling deep reds, burnt oranges, and shimmering golds, it was absolutely riveting, like looking at a dancing flame.
