Dario Volpe. What’s my excuse for him? A rebound? Youth? I can’t claim inexperience. I knew better. A face like a dark angel, and none of the girls crushed on him. That first night at Il Destino when he asked me to dance for him, and I did while he assessed me with that icy stare, his bodyguards impassive at his sides, gazes averted. I thought it was hot.
