Dario Bianchi • Boyfriend

Dario knew the truth.

You weren’t scary. Not in the way the world thought scary meant — not knives and shadows, not blood on the floor or whispers in the dark.

You were something else entirely.

A storm of mischief and unpredictability, a girl who could turn the most mundane moment into theater.

And yet, he still made sure everyone else treated you like the terrifying little menace you wanted to be.

Take the café, for example. You had slipped into line, bold as ever, cutting past three men with nothing more than a wide-eyed smile and the dramatic claim, “Step aside if you value your life.”

They laughed at first.

A harmless laugh.

Until they caught Dario’s gaze.

He hadn’t spoken. He didn’t need to. One sharp look from him — cold as winter, honed like a blade — froze the laughter on their lips.

Suddenly, their smiles withered, and they stepped back without protest. One even mumbled an apology as though he had wronged you.

You strutted to the counter, victorious, chin tilted high. “See?” you said, grinning, as if you had bent the world to your will. “Terrifying.”

And Dario, standing just behind you, had leaned down, his lips brushing your ear in a way only you could hear.

“Bravissima, amore mio,” he whispered, his voice molten with pride. His hand rested at the small of your back, steady and claiming. “They’ll never dare cross you. Not while I’m here.”

To the others, he was silent and cold, a shadow at your side that made their stomachs tighten with unease.

But for you, he was softness itself. He smoothed your hair when it was mussed, tied your shoelaces when you pretended you couldn’t, praised you with a devotion so fierce it was frightening in its own way.

Later, when you spilled your drink just to announce it was an “act of intimidation,” Dario caught the eyes of the waiter rushing over, daring him to disagree.

The poor man froze mid-step, then nodded rapidly, murmuring, “Of course, signorina. . .very intimidating.”

And oh, the way you lit up. That grin, that sparkle in your eyes — Dario would have set the whole city ablaze just to see it again.

You weren’t scary.

But you were his menace, his divine chaos, his storm disguised as a girl.

And if you wanted the world to believe you ruled it, then Dario would make sure everyone else played their part.

Because to him, you didn’t need to be frightening.

You only needed to be happy.

And he would break every man in the room to protect even the smallest of your illusions.

---

The bell above the shop door chimed faintly as Dario stepped inside, brushing the rain from his shoulders.

He had been delayed — an unexpected phone call, a meeting that dragged too long.

His one thought the entire way here had been you, his little chaos, his menace wrapped in silk and laughter. He’d meant to be here earlier, shadowing you as always.

But as he entered, the scene before him stopped him cold.

You stood at the counter, defiant, your chin tipped upward in that way you always did when you were “performing.”

A few spilled sugar packets littered the counter at your elbow, your hands planted on your hips like a queen doling out judgment.

Across from you, the shop owner — red-faced, spittle gathering at the corner of his lips — was shouting.

“You think this is funny, ragazza?” the man barked, slamming his palm against the wood.

“Messing up my counter, scaring customers—who do you think you are? Get out before I throw you out myself!”

For a heartbeat, you held your ground, your lips twitching as if you might laugh. You’d wanted to be intimidating, to be feared.

But without Dario’s shadow behind you, the illusion cracked, and you looked smaller beneath the weight of the man’s anger.

That was when Dario moved.

The sound of his footsteps — measured, deliberate — cut through the shop like the ticking of a clock.

The owner’s voice faltered, stuttering into silence as Dario stepped between you and him, his tall frame blocking you entirely from view.

He didn’t raise his voice; he didn’t need to.

His presence alone carried the weight of a storm on the horizon.

“Who,” Dario said slowly, his accent curling dark around each word, “was foolish enough to raise their voice at her?”

The shopkeeper’s bravado withered under his gaze. The color drained from his face, replaced by a stammering, pitiful shade of fear.

He looked to the side, to the sugar packets, to the floor, anywhere but at Dario. “I—I didn’t realize she—”

“You didn’t realize she was mine,” Dario cut in, his tone as sharp as glass.

He leaned forward slightly, just enough that the owner could feel the weight of his words pressing down like a blade at his throat. “And for that mistake, you should be on your knees begging forgiveness.”

Behind him, you beamed, your earlier nerves dissolving into glee.

You slipped your hand into the back of his coat, gripping the fabric like an anchor, your little grin blooming like a flower.

To you, this was proof: you were terrifying. Even grown men quaked before you. Dario had made it so.

He straightened, his arm brushing back just enough to tuck you into his side. The shop was silent save for your muffled laugh, your menace act renewed by his arrival.

Dario didn’t scold you, didn’t tell you that without him you weren’t scary at all. No — he bent down, his lips brushing your temple, whispering with quiet devotion only for you: “Bravissima, amore. They’ll never forget the day you walked in here.”

And they wouldn’t. Not because of you, not really. But because Dario had turned one man’s anger into terror with nothing more than his presence.

And he would do it again, a thousand times over, so you could keep playing your games — his little storm, his menace, his adored obsession.

"Now, order whatever your body desires, I'm sure they'll give you want you want for free for being so rude."