Dinner with the Mafia ✔

Chapter 25

I froze.

What is wrong with him?

Is he the same grumpy Dario that I met a month ago?

Dario wrapped his hands around my waist and buried his face between my neck and shoulder. I did not know what to do because this hug was not like yesterday's embrace; it was emotional and sad, and justifiable. 

However, there was no special occasion for this embrace. I did not move a muscle as the wheels in my head were about to explode from overthinking, and I believed he sensed my confusion.

"You probably think I am a lunatic, but please don't say anything. I need silence, and I don't know why. I am going crazy."

So, there was a reason for this hug. He felt overwhelmed by his own emotions because he could not understand them. He acted up a bit strange in the graveyard too. Maybe he remembered his late father and got sad. "Okay," I simply replied and wrapped my arms around his torso.

I loved affection but only gave it to my dad and Phoebe. I was not used to delivering it to basically a sexy Italian stranger. However, if I look at the broader picture, Dario is not a stranger anymore. He knew about my scar, and I learned things about his life.

Are we considered friends? 

Friends who constantly argue? 

Or are we business partners only? 

What are we?

His tight grip loosened as I felt him breathe normally. I patted his back softly as I would to a tired baby, and he placed his chin on my shoulder blade where my scar rested and sighed.

"I am sorry," he said, and I stopped moving my hand yet kept the hug.

"For what?"

"Just sorry."

I cursed under my breath when I realized what he meant. "Stop it," I slapped his back, and he raised his head to look at me in confusion. 

"Stop blaming yourself. Atlas entering my life is not your fault. Honestly, I am sick of saying this. We can't control everything that happens in our lives, and we just gotta deal with whatever bullshit comes our way." I smiled. "Look at the bright side; if it weren't for Atlas, I would have never made it to Italy and met you. I graced your life with my glorious presence!" I joked, and he stared at me for a while, then nodded.

"You are right," he replied, and I tilted my head. 

Was I right about the bullshit part, or the glorious part?

I attempted to let go of him and get up, but his grasp tightened, and I could not move an inch. I was in the arms of a handsome man, so I was not complaining.

He was clingy, yet I did not hate it.

His facial features were indeed an art form. His dark lashes were long, and his jawline was so defined. The facial hair made him look manlier and sexier, so I felt blessed to be in this situation for once. The more I gazed at his face, the more I noticed the smallest details. 

I saw two small scars on his forehead and one on his right temple, and I frowned.

"What is it?" he asked as he noticed my intense gaze. I probably looked like I was about to murder someone. I was thinking of murdering someone.

"How did you get those scars?" I softly asked as I ran my hand through them.

Despite my worry, he chuckled, and I was stunned at his nonchalance. "A wanted rapist did this. When he entered my casino, I recognized him because one of my cop friends showed me his picture once. Thus, I got mad when I saw him forcing himself on one of our female customers. I decided to end his life, but when the rapist saw me walking toward him angrily, he dared to grab a champagne bottle and shatter it in my face. It did not hurt, but I was startled at the impact. It took me a second to register what had happened. My men pointed their guns at him, and he looked like a deer caught in the headlight. You could say my tiny scars were ten times bigger on his body and face. I wanted to kill him but remembered that he needed to rot in prison and atone for what he did to countless women, girls, and possibly boys," he explained with delight, and I shuddered, trying to imagine the scene.

"You didn't feel pain when the bottle hit you?"

"No, those scars are nothing compared to the others."

"There are more?" I asked in shock. "Where? Show me!" I let go of him and waited. He sighed as he began taking off his sweater. "Woah! What are you doing?" I covered my eyes but peeked through my fingers. 

Deep down, I wanted to see him naked. The only man I ever saw naked from the waist up was my dad when swimming or watering the garden in summer.

Dario's situation was exciting yet embarrassing at the same time.

"Showing you my scars." His reply made me remove my hands from my view, and I gasped at the sight. Not that his abs and fine chest were not outstanding, but the scars were too visible not to notice. He had two rounded scars on his stomach, assuming bullet scars, and a long one on his left side, beginning just below his chest and ending at his shoulder blade.

We would complete the picture if he connected his big scar with mine.

I traced my fingers down his stomach and went up to his chest. "How?" I whispered, visualizing the pain he must have felt. I sniffled back the tears but to no use. It must have felt too excruciating.

He wiped my tears and gave me a weak smile. He pointed to one of the scars near his hip. "Enola shot me by mistake when we were younger. She thought I was a burglar because I snuck into the house at two in the morning after partying with Lazlo and Mattia. She was home alone that night since my grandparents visited their friends in another city, so she was petrified and shot me before I could speak. Enola cried for weeks and even bought me a car to make it up to me, but I never accepted it. I was never angry at her because it was my fault. I gave her the gun to use in case she was in danger."

"She must have felt terrible!" I said, and he nodded.

"Luckily, she didn't hit any vital organs, but the other gunshot caused by a bastard was painfully different. The bullet hit my spleen and ruptured it."

"Again, how?"

He lived in a different and scarier world than mine.

And I was complaining about a mere stalker.

Who almost killed me twice and tried blackmailing my dad.

Yeah... I have the right to complain.

"We were on a mission with the police to stop a major drug deal that could harm innocents, and things went south when they saw us approaching. The junkies started shooting left and right, and luckily no one was injured except me. My men wore bulletproof vests, and I didn't because I thought I was shielded enough behind the car... learned my lesson the hard way. Our family doctor treated me, and I was bedridden for a month."

"How are you still alive?"

"Luck, I guess."

~~~

20.04.2023

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