Page 21 of Marco

He shakes his head, reaching for the nightstand. "Here, take this."

I swallow the pills and sip the glass of water he holds to my lips. His hand lingers beneath my head, gentle.

"Get some rest. I'll check on you in a bit."

He brushes a strand of hair from my face before getting up to leave. I close my eyes, comforted knowing he's near. Despite my illness making we feel awful, his touch is comforting and even a little exciting.

Over the next few days, Marco cares for me tirelessly between his work obligations. He brings soup, extra blankets, cold compresses for my head. His touch is tender when he helps me sit up or take medicine. No demands or expectations, just a simple desire to nurse me back to health.

In my rare lucid moments, I study his handsome face hovering above me, etched with concern. This man who I thought incapable of real human connection.

As my fever finally breaks, our eyes meet in silent understanding. Something fractured in both of us has begun to heal.

I'm finally feeling well enough to get out of bed and move around the house some. Marco is in his home office, the door partially open. I pause in the hallway, watching him work with impressive levels of intensity and focus. His shirt sleeves are rolled up, revealing the tattoos snaking up his forearms. God, how I love a man with tattoos. And a powerful man with tattoos is even hotter.

So different from the starched suits and cufflinks he wears to conduct business. In these private moments, his rough edges show through the polished veneer.

I'm drawn from my thoughts as the front door opens and two of Marco's men stride in. They nod curtly in my direction before continuing to the office.

"The shipment's ready to move," one says. Marco's demeanor shifts, his expression hardening as he discusses logistics.

This stark contrast hits me once again. The man who gently cared for me these past days also ruthlessly runs an international crime syndicate. My sickness allowed us to briefly forget the tangled circumstances binding us together. But the real world always encroaches again.

Marco glances up and catches my eye through the open door. Something softens in his gaze for a moment before he turns back to his men.

"Make sure there aren't any loose ends. I don't want trouble with the local families." His voice is steely.

I slip away, my steps heavy. However Marco makes me feel, I cannot ignore the danger surrounding him. My family would likely benefit from this arrangement. They haven’t explicitly said they expect me to gain his trust for our own purposes, yet clearly it places us at an advantage. But my heart threatens to betray that mission.

I take a deep breath as I enter the kitchen, busying myself with mundane tasks like brewing coffee and prepping ingredients for dinner. The domesticity of it helps ground me after the intrusion of Marco's business. Plus, it feels good to be doing something after spending days in bed feeling weak and hopeless.

Soon I hear footsteps approaching. Marco's men must have left as he comes into the kitchen alone, his shirt sleeves still rolled up.

"Everything okay, Alessia?" he asks, glancing at me. "You sure you should be up and about already? Take the time you need to rest and recuperate."

"Of course, I'm fine," I reply lightly, not meeting his eyes. Marco comes closer, his voice lowered.

"You know I don't want you involved in any of that." He gestures vaguely in the direction of his office.

I pause my chopping, knife poised over the cutting board. "It's your world, Marco. I can't pretend it doesn't exist."

He runs a hand over his jaw, seeming unsure how to respond. The air feels heavy between us.

Finally Marco moves closer, gently taking the knife from my hand and setting it down. He turns me to face him, his eyes intent on mine.

"This..." he trails off, his hand lightly grazing my cheek. "Us...it's more than just business now."

My pulse quickens at his touch, his words. I know he's right. Our relationship has shifted over these past weeks. But neither of us has dared to speak it aloud until now.

"Marco..." His name comes out almost as a whisper. I hold my breath as he leans in, his piercing eyes fixed on me, and I feel myself drawn like a moth to flame, consequences be damned. Just before our lips meet, a shrill ring cuts through the charged air. Marco pulls back with a muttered curse, reaching into his pocket for his phone. His jaw tightens as he glances at the screen.

"I have to take this."

I nod mutely, my cheeks flaming as I turn back to the cutting board. Marco's tone is clipped and cold as he answers. I try not to eavesdrop, focusing on dicing vegetables with trembling hands.

But I can't ignore the ugly truth invading our fragile moment. Marco's world—the danger, the violence—it's always lurking. No matter how much we pretend otherwise, it won't just disappear because we wish it would.

Marco ends the call and lets out a long breath, scrubbing a hand over his face. When he meets my eyes again, the warmth from before is gone. In its place is a hard glint, the stoic mask of the mafia boss firmly back in place.

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