Page 3 of Dark Mafia Vows

“Are you serious?” I reply, incredulous. “You just cut in front of me and act as if it’s no big deal? I could’ve hit your car if I hadn’t seen you in time.”

He shrugs, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “If you’d been paying attention, this wouldn’t have been a problem.”

I recall some of the things I’ve heard about him—cold, arrogant, condescending. And now, he stands before me with that smirk, proving the rumors were indeed true.

My blood boils at his words. “What?” I choke. “Are you seriously suggesting this is my fault? You’re the one who?—”

“It is your fault.” He cuts me off sharply. “I don’t insinuate.”

I inhale deeply, trying to calm myself down.

“I can see that acting like an arrogant jerk comes naturally to you,” I shoot back. Calm down, my ass. I’m fucking pissed.

His eyebrows raise slightly, and so does my voice. “You think you can just do whatever you want. Who the hell do you think you are?”

His green eyes harden, and I spot a hint of anger in them.

“Look,” he bites out, his eyes sweeping over me dismissively. “I don’t have time for this nonsense. Doesn’t the staff have a different entrance?”

His voice drips with condescension, and my eyes twitch at the insult. I stand there seething, my fists clenching at my sides.

“Staff?” I splutter, staring down at my body, wincing. “I’m not the staff, I’m?—”

“When I care, I’ll let you know.”

He turns away from me and heads to the elevator as if I’m not even worth his time. I can’t believe he has the audacity totreat me like this. “You’re not used to being called out, so you’re walking away like the coward you are,” I call after him, my voice louder and sharper than I intended.

He doesn’t respond. The nerve of him!

The last time I saw Dario, he was with my brother, his aloofness and cold demeanor always getting under my skin. Memories of his dismissive remarks flood back, and I realize just how much I loathe him, especially since he doesn’t even remember me.

Before I can even think it through, I find myself walking toward him, determined to catch up before he reaches the elevator.

“Hey, I’m talking to you,” I call out, grabbing him by the arm to halt his movement.

He freezes, his gaze dropping to my fingers wrapped around his arm, his face twisting in disgust, as though I’ve just hurled a pile of excrement at him.

“Get your hands off me.” His voice is cold and forbidding. If I had any brain cells in my head, I’d pretend this was an accident, laugh it off, and hurry away. But I didn’t get where I am by running.

“So you’re not going to apologize?” I snarl.

My heart pounds against my chest, each beat resonating like a warning bell, urging me to stop. But I ignore it.

“Apologize for what, exactly?” His tone is casual, almost bored.

I raise an eyebrow, feigning thoughtfulness. “Hmm, let’s see. For starters, how about what I just told you? You clearly saw me going for that spot, and now you’re playing dumb as if it never happened.”

What are you doing?My inner voice screams at me, but it’s too late to back down now.

On a list of stupid things to do, confronting Dario De Luca—the man who was once my childhood hero but is now a name synonymous with danger—tops them all.

Dario’s eyes narrow and if possible, they get colder. I can’t help the shiver that courses down my body, and I resist the urge to take a step backward. I’m not going to give him the satisfaction of showing him I’m scared of him or that he intimidates me.

“You have no idea who I am, do you, or you wouldn’t make the idiotic mistake of laying your hands on me,” he drawls, his voice dripping with disdain.

“I’m not by any means a professor of English, but I don’t think that combination of words meantI’m sorry, so let’s try again, shall we?” I retort with a bright, mocking smile. His jaw ticks in response.

I’ve seen countless photos of Dario online and in the newspapers our butler likes to read, but seeing him in person, tight-jawed, eyes narrowed, makes me pity the poor cameras that struggle to capture his true essence.

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