Page 43 of Power
Chapter 12
Vittoria
Dario doesn’t tell me where we’re going today. Just came to my room this evening and gestured for me to follow him, and I did. It’s easier this way, not thinking too hard about what I’m doing. Or why.
The night breeze is harsh and is biting at my skin. I should’ve worn something heavier, but I didn’t know we’d be leaving the house. I barely know anything when it comes to him. And yet, I trust him. Stupid, probably. Reckless, definitely. But trust isn’t something that comes with logic. It settles in like an infection, before you even realize you’ve been exposed.
A car waits for us at the end of the drive, dark and unassuming. Rafa is already in the driver’s seat, his hands gripping the wheel like he’s considering bending it in half. He barely glances at me as I climb into the back beside Dario.
“Do I get to know where we’re going?” I ask.
Dario smirks, that same look that makes it impossible to know what he’s thinking. “Somewhere you’ll like.”
Vague. Annoying. Infuriatingly intriguing.
Rafa mutters something under his breath as he pulls onto the road and his eyes move to the mirror.
“You know, some of us don’t like surprises.”
Dario laughs. “And yet, here you are.”
Rafa’s sigh is the sound of a man regretting all his life choices. I’m starting to think he spends most of his time like that.
The ride isn’t long. Fifteen minutes, maybe. We stop outside a small, nondescript building wedged between a closed deliand a pawn shop with shattered neon letters gleaming in the window. It looks abandoned.
Dario doesn’t give me time to question it before he’s stepping out, holding the door open for me. “Come on.”
Inside, it’s dimly lit, warm, and full of sound. A jazz bar, but not the kind that caters to tourists or rich men looking to feel cultured for a night. It’s real, lived-in. The kind of place where people come to forget the world outside.
A few heads turn when we walk in. Not many. It’s clear Dario’s been here before. He walks with that quiet ease of someone who belongs.
“Wait there,” he says, nodding toward a booth in the corner.
I sit, watching as he crosses the room, and exchanges nods with the bartender before heading straight to the old, worn piano near the stage. He cracks his knuckles and rolls his shoulders. Then he starts to play.
I don’t breathe.
I’ve heard him play before, but never like this. Never this raw, this unguarded. The notes roll through the room and sink into my bones. For a moment, nothing else exists.
And then, just as easily as it began, it ends.
There’s a pause, a collective exhale, before quiet applause spreads through the bar. Dario stands, gives a small nod, and comes back to the booth.
“You play like that often?” I ask, voice softer than I meant it to be.
His smirk is small, barely there. “Not for a long time.”
I want to ask why. But I already know. Life gets in the way. We lose parts of ourselves along the way. Some, we never get back.
We don’t get to sit with the moment for long.
The door swings open. Three men step inside. It is clear they aren’t here for drinks.
Dario tenses beside me. His hand moves slowly and slips under his jacket.
One of the men, broad-shouldered and mean-looking, spots us. His eyes lock onto Dario. “Bellini.”
Rafa curses under his breath. “Should’ve known this was a bad idea.”
