Page 17 of Marco

Marco sensing my unease, makes efforts to reassure me. But I know he shields me from the truth. At any moment, violence could erupt and shatter our fragile peace.

So I cling to these quiet moments we share, suspended in time. Aware they may be fleeting. Marco too seems to savor our talks, as one savors the last golden days before winter. An unspoken question hangs between us—how long can this last? What will the point be when things come to an end and go back to normal, or otherwise.

For now, we carry on, neither of us ready to voice our true feelings. But the deeper we connect, the harder it becomes to ignore the gathering storm.

The next evening, I'm reading in the library when Marco enters, his shirt splattered with blood. I gasp, my book tumbling to the floor.

"Are—are you okay?" I ask, panicked.

"It's not mine," he says gruffly.

My pulse races as I take in his disheveled appearance. His knuckles are bruised, his face etched with a cold fury I've never seen before.

"What happened?" I ask shakily.

He pours himself a scotch from the decanter on the bar cart that sits against one of the library walls, downing it in one gulp.

"Just business. Nothing for you to worry about."

We haven't known each other long, but I know better than to press him. Instead, I cautiously approach and begin cleaning the blood from his hands with a warm cloth. He tenses at first but soon relaxes under my gentle touch.

We don't speak. The only sound is the crackling fireplace. I feel his eyes on me as I carefully wipe the last of the stains away, revealing grazed and swollen knuckles beneath.

"You shouldn't see such things," he says finally, his voice uncharacteristically soft.

I meet his gaze. "I knew what I was getting into. I'm still here."

Something flickers in his stormy eyes. Before I can decipher it, he turns abruptly and stalks out.

Alone again, I shiver despite the heat of the fire. I know Marco was reminding me, in his own way, of the violence that surrounds him. That I shouldn't get too comfortable in this temporary oasis.

But as darkness falls, I make my decision. I will not run or hide from whatever comes.

Marco's world may be perilous, but it is one I now share.

For better or worse.

eight

Marco

The thunder rumbles outside like a caged beast, rattling the window panes of my quiet library. I sit alone, nursing a glass of scotch as I watch the storm brewing over the bay. The tumultuous skies match the turmoil in my heart.

Usually my home hums with activity—my men coming and going, deliveries being made, business being conducted. But tonight, an eerie silence pervades. I've given orders to be left alone, to have time to think.

My mind turns to my father, who sat in this same leather chair, staring out at the same angry seas when he was conflicted about family, loyalty, and love. I feel the weight of his legacy pressing down on me now in the gloom. The choices I make seal fates and end lives, for better or worse.

This life isolates me from the world outside these walls. I'm set apart, elevated and feared. No one truly knows me or sees the doubts I harbor deep within. I take another burning sip, wondering if the emptiness will ever subside...

I nod to Alessia as she enters the room, the click of her heels muted by the plush rug. She's shed the trendy sundresses and updos, wearing a simple sweater and jeans, her hair loose around her shoulders. It makes her seem younger, more approachable. Although whatever she wears, I know one thing to be true—she's the most stunning woman I've ever laid eyes on.

She glances at the tumbler in my hand. "Rough day?"

I let out a wry laugh. "You could say that."

She settles on the leather couch across from me, tucking her feet underneath her in a way that makes me want to rush over there and envelop her in my arms. But of course, I don't. I stay fixed in my chair, trying to figure out what comes next.

"You know," she says, "I always pictured mafia bosses presiding over raucous parties and gambling dens, not sitting alone in dark rooms."

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