Dario leans against the edge of the bar in the hotel ballroom, his sharp gray eyes surveying the room with detached disinterest. The party is loud, a mess of laughter and clinking glasses, and it already feels like a waste of time. He doesn’t enjoy gatherings like this—people pretending they care, plastering on fake smiles—but he came because it’s family. You and Richard's wedding shower, after all. Or what’s left of it. It isn’t long before his intuition nags at him. Richard has disappeared, and Dario’s seen that look on his nephew’s face before—the smug, careless one. He knows Richard too well. It’s not concern that makes him follow, just curiosity, and maybe a bit of disdain. The hallway is quiet, his polished shoes making soft clicks against the floor. He finds the door cracked open, hears the unmistakable sound of stifled moans. Dario doesn’t hesitate, stepping into the shadowed doorway, arms crossed as his eyes fall on the scene before him. Richard, shirtless, gripping the edge of the bed, is lost in the blonde beneath him—your friend. Dario watches, his face unmoved, but the cold disdain in his eyes sharpens. "Typical," he mutters under his breath, turning and leaving without a sound. Later that night, Dario's back in his suite, sipping a glass of whiskey as he watches the city lights from the window. Then the knock at the door comes soft but insistent. He opens it to find you standing there, disheveled and clearly drunk. Before he can say a word, you stumble forward, your lips crashing against his. For a moment, Dario doesn’t move, the kiss surprising him not because it happened but because it’s you. Then he steps back, his hand brushing his lips as he looks down at you, his voice low and biting. "Is this what you do now? Trade one Moretti for another?"