Page 16 of Marco

I can't help but smile a little in return. Perhaps there is hope for us yet.

Marco gestures to the sprawling gardens surrounding us. "Come, walk with me."

I fall into step beside him along the gravel pathway, the faint scent of roses and jasmine perfuming the air. Marco's home is like an oasis, shut away from the harsh realities of the outside world. Here there is only beauty, calm, and order.

Yet I sense the isolation as well. The cold perfection of the architecture and landscaping speaks of control and restraint. There is little warmth or intimacy. Everything is curated to the finest detail, focused on function over comfort. Impersonal, almost as if you could plug and play any mafia boss into the scenery and they'd blend right in.

Marco walks with an air of contained power, his expression unreadable. The weight of leadership shows in the set of his shoulders, the deliberate pace of his stride. This is a man unaccustomed to idleness or vulnerability.

"Your gardens really are lovely," I offer, hoping to draw him into conversation. They're the one departure I've seen so far from the uniformity of everything else at the residence.

He nods. "I find solace in nurturing living things. Creating order from chaos."

I wonder if he speaks only of the gardens, or of his role as head of the family. As cheesy as it sounds, perhaps being a mafia boss is its own kind of gardening—pruning away unruly shoots, cultivating only what is useful.

We walk in silence for a time. When Marco speaks again, his voice is quiet. "This life of mine can be...solitary. I bear responsibilities few can understand."

He turns to gaze at me and pauses, weighing his words. "Having you here provides a rare moment of respite. Your presence is...not unwelcome."

I'm surprised by this admission, despite its formal delivery. Have I become more to him than just a business transaction? He barely knows me. The thought leaves me conflicted, but also intrigued to know this complicated man better.

Where this startling new connection between us might lead, I can't yet say. But the seeds of understanding have been planted. I'm touched by Marco's unexpected candor. Beneath the hard exterior, there are layers I'm only beginning to uncover.

We continue walking, the afternoon sun warm on our faces. Marco seems lost in thought, his gaze introspective.

"What drew you to the café business?" he asks.

I tell him about my family's history, my Nonna's recipes, the joy of making food with love. Of building community, one perfect cappuccino at a time.

Marco listens intently, asking thoughtful questions. He confides he often longs for the simple pleasures—a quiet meal with friends, the comfort of familiar places.

"Perhaps you could show me your Nonna's recipes sometime," he suggests tentatively.

My eyes widen in surprise. I imagine this powerful man in my tiny café kitchen, sleeves rolled up, kneading dough. Marco wants to experience my world. Of course, if I'm going to teach him to cook my family's recipes it's going to be in his state-of-the-art kitchen that would leave most professional chefs drooling. But I think I can cope with that.

We talk and laugh over a late lunch. The conversation flows easily now. Marco's smile reaches his eyes, lighting his face with warmth.

I nod appreciatively as Marco shares more of himself—small details that hint at the man behind the mask. He describes summers in Tuscany as a boy, running through sun-dappled olive groves. The scent of fresh baked foccaccia with olives from the village bakery. How he still seeks out that bread to remind him of simpler times.

In turn, I tell him about my parents, their boundless love and support. How they worked tirelessly to give me opportunities they never had.

"Family is everything," Marco says quietly. Though his parents are gone, I sense their influence still guides him. Just like mine guide me.

Later, Marco joins me in the music room. Marco settles comfortably in an armchair, his expression relaxed and engaged. Before really thinking about it, I sit at the grand piano and play a melancholy sonata. Closing my eyes, I lose myself in the ebb and flow of notes. It's been years since I played, but they say playing the piano is a bit like getting back on a bike after many years, and the notes flow to me effortlessly.

When I finish, Marco's expression is raw, vulnerable. "My mother used to play that piece," he says thickly. "You brought her back to me."

He turns away, overcome by emotion. My heart aches for his profound loss. One that I understand far too deeply. Slowly, I come to stand beside him. It feels comfortable being next to him, a far cry from the first time he visited the cafe.

With time, I hope Marco will share more happy memories of his parents. For now, a chord of understanding begins to resonate between us. Walls are falling away, revealing two surprisingly kindred spirits despite our significantly different upbringings. I can see that, despite the rumors that swirl around his family name, inside of this handsomely curated exterior is a human being with childhood memories and traumas that impact him every day.

Despite the growing connection between us, an undercurrent of tension remains ever-present. This forced union strains against our true desires. I still ache for my simple life at the café, even though now that seems like a distant dream. I'm scared that if I ever do go back, I could put my employees and my customers at risk… my Nonna. Maybe they already are in danger, even while I'm cocooned safely here. That doesn't seem fair. Maybe I've made a mistake.

Marco's world frightens me. Behind the decadent trappings lie unseen dangers. I know so little of his business, shrouded in secrecy. Only glimpses of his ruthless power filter through. I worry that his ruthlessness could turn on me at any moment.

Like the other night, when Marco took an urgent call that sent him storming into the night. I peered through the curtains watching him speed off, tires screeching. A cold dread filled me, wondering what darkness he raced towards.

Even in the sanctuary of this house, I can't escape the looming threat. Marco's men are never far away, constantly vigilant. I'm reminded this gilded cage still locks me in. I know I'm being watched, the many cameras sprinkled around the home and grounds a constant reminder that I can't fully let my guard down.

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