Page 70 of Now and Forever

In the relatively short period of our marriage, I’d become addicted to the way Dario touched and kissed me. His patience and my resolve reaped our desired outcome. Sex was not only better, I also yearned for the closeness. Whether before falling asleep, during the night, or first thing in the morning, both of us would initiate lovemaking.

Being in his presence caused my blood to warm. Having his attention sent electric currents to my core. One night as we climbed into bed, I scooted closer and ran my fingertips over the scars on his chest.

“You can tell me about these,” I said, “and I won’t be frightened of you.”

Dario leaned back against the headboard and reached for my hand. His freshly showered scent filled my senses as his hand warmed mine. “I’m not sure I remember how I got all of them.” He smiled. “Dante is responsible for a few.”

“You and Dante fought?”

“When we were boys. Our father made us.”

“What?” I said, sitting taller and staring at his handsome features. “Why?”

“To make us tough.”

“He didn’t want you to hurt one another, did he?”

“If you ask me, I’d say he wanted one of us to kill the other.”

My stomach twisted. “But now you’re close. Dante was at dinner tonight.”

“It’s my father’s worst nightmare. If he could keep us at war with one another—hating and distrusting each other—we couldn’t be at war with him.”

I thought about my father. “I can’t imagine a father wanting his children to hate one another. I miss my siblings. I’m excited that Camila is coming to visit soon.” I wanted to ask more questions. There were subjects about which I’d yet to ask. “Vincent’s harsh parenting must have worked. Papá said he heard you became a made man at thirteen.”

Dario held out his right arm, twisting it and showing me a scar on his forearm. “That’s from the omertá—the ceremony.”

I ran my fingertips over the scar. It had to be over three inches long. “I read that during the omertá, someone pricks your finger for a few drops of blood.”

Dario shook his head. “It wasn’t a pinprick.”

“Who cut you?”

“Capo dei capi. That would be my father.”

“And you were thirteen?” I asked in disbelief. “I heard you slit a man’s throat. It’s how you got your nickname.”

“The man was a traitor. He was caught stealing from the famiglia.” Dario shook his head. “His death was an example and a warning. The fact he was begging a kid for his life at the end made a lasting impression.”

Looking up, I met his stare. “Will you…if we have a son?” The overwhelming sense of dread made my question difficult to ask.

“I would rather my son stand at my side because he wants to be there, instead of him being there because he doesn’t want to miss my death.”

“How old were you when he made you and Dante fight?”

“Four or five.”

“Until?”

“We formed a united front in our teens. We finally told him if he tried that shit again, he would be the one bleeding out.”

“Isn’t that against some rule? He’s the capo—capo dei capi.”

“He made a choice. He could have had us both killed.”

“Would he do that?”

“He probably considered it. He didn’t,” Dario said. “The thing was, what my father did to us made us both strong and disciplined killing machines. We swore our loyalty to him and the famiglia, but unless Vincent Luciano wanted to sleep with guards posted outside his bedroom door every night, he had to admit he’d done his job too well. One of us would have taken him out.”

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