I WOULD KILL FOR YOU

Chapter 7: The Catalyst

The night started out normal.

Music pulsed through the crowded house, vibrating under my skin as people swayed and laughed and drank too much. I wasn’t sure why I agreed to come—maybe because Dario had insisted, maybe because I wanted to feel normal again. Like we were just another couple blending into a sea of strangers. Like I didn’t know the truth.

We stood near the kitchen, half-full red cups in our hands. I wasn’t drinking mine. Dario didn’t touch his. His hand stayed on my lower back the entire time, like a quiet reminder that I belonged to him. No one else. Just him.

I was mid-sentence, talking to some girl I barely knew, when it happened.

A guy walked past, laughing too loudly, clearly drunk. His arm brushed mine—barely. Just the edge of his fingers grazing my skin. I didn’t flinch. I didn’t even register it as anything.

But Dario did.

I felt him still beside me, saw the shift in his posture before I even turned. His jaw clenched. His eyes followed the guy like a predator tracking prey. Not a word came out of his mouth, but the air between us tightened.

Then he leaned in, lips brushing my ear as he whispered, “Smile, sweetheart. We’re leaving soon.”

I did.

I smiled like nothing was wrong, like I hadn’t just felt the temperature of the room drop. Like I didn’t know exactly what that tone meant. That someone had just made a very stupid mistake.

We left minutes later.

He didn’t speak in the car. His fingers tapped the steering wheel in rhythm with the beat of some slow, haunting song. I didn’t ask him anything. I stared out the window and waited.

When we got home, he kissed me on the forehead, told me to go to bed, and I did. I didn’t sleep, though. I waited, curled under the blanket with my eyes on the door.

At 3 a.m., I heard the front door open.

His footsteps were quiet, but I could always tell when it was him. The sound of his movements, the calm in them—it was like death had learned how to walk in silence.

Then came the sound of the shower.

I caught the scent before I saw him. Smoke. Ashes clinging to fabric. It filled the apartment like a warning, thick and undeniable.

I stayed in bed, staring at the ceiling, heart strangely still.

The next morning, I turned on the TV while I made coffee. The news anchor’s voice droned on in the background until I heard the words.

“Local house fire… one fatality… no suspects at this time.”

My hand didn’t shake. I didn’t spill the coffee. I didn’t even blink.

I already knew.

I didn’t ask questions. I didn’t need to. I knew exactly what he’d done. I knew who it was for. I knew what that boy’s hand brushing my arm had cost him.

And still, I didn’t feel afraid.

I should have.

I should have been horrified. I should have cried. I should have been packing a bag, planning an escape, calling someone—anyone.

But instead, I sipped my coffee and looked out the window.

And for the first time, I felt something else.

Power.

It wrapped around me like a second skin, quiet and warm and thrilling. He’d done it for me. Not because I asked him to. Not because I wanted it. But because I was his. Because in Dario’s world, a touch was a crime, and I was a reason to burn it all down.

He walked into the kitchen minutes later, hair damp, wearing a clean shirt, like nothing happened. He kissed my cheek and asked how I slept.

“Fine,” I said, smiling.

He poured himself a cup and leaned against the counter, eyes fixed on me like I was the only thing in the world that mattered.

And maybe I was.

That’s the thing about loving someone like Dario. He doesn’t just give you his heart. He gives you his violence. His chaos. His fury.

And once you’ve tasted that kind of devotion, it ruins you for anything else.

I looked at him that morning and realized I didn’t want anything else.

Let the city burn.

I would never belong to anyone else.