Page 74 of Mafia Kingdom

True to his word, Marco reappears shortly in fresh clothes, the battle armor of his business suit exchanged for dark jeans and a simple button-down. The transformation is subtle but significant—less Walsh family enforcer, more, just...Marco.

Dinner unfolds better than I dared hope. The initial awkwardness that had hung across the men gives way to genuine camaraderie as Marco's men relax enough to share stories—carefully edited for Lily's sake—of their experiences working for the Walsh family. Lily, delighted at being included in such grown-up company, asks a thousand questions, her natural charm drawing smiles from even the most hardened security personnel.

Karen remains reserved but civil, her disapproval temporarily set aside in the face of such unexpected normality. When she compliments the food, it feels like a small victory.

Marco, seated at the head of the table with me to his right, maintains a careful balance between authority and accessibility. He doesn't quite relax fully—I suspect he never does—but he allows his men to see a side of him they rarely witness: attentive, occasionally even humorous, engaging with Lily's questions with surprising patience.

Once or twice, I catch him watching me with an expression that makes my heart skip. Something like wonder, or perhaps disbelief, as if he can't quite fathom how this scene—thismoment of peaceful domesticity—has materialized in his world of violence and control.

When dinner concludes, Lily insists on showing Marco the drawing she made of Buddy earlier in the day. To my amazement, he agrees, following her to where the artwork is proudly displayed on the refrigerator door. I watch from a distance as she chatters away, his tall figure bent slightly to better hear her excited explanations.

"This doesn't change anything, you know," Karen says quietly, appearing at my side. "One nice dinner doesn't make this normal."

"I know," I acknowledge. "But maybe it's a start. A glimpse of what could be."

She sighs, some of her rigid opposition softening. "You're determined to see this through, aren't you? Whatever this is with him."

I nod, unable to articulate the certainty I feel despite all logic and self-preservation instincts to the contrary. "I am."

"Then I hope you know what you're doing," she says simply. "For all our sakes."

After Lily is tucked into bed, the house gradually quiets. Marco's men return to their posts. Karen retires to her room with a final meaningful look in my direction, leaving Marco and me alone in the kitchen.

I busy myself with cleaning up, though the staff has already handled most of it. Marco watches me from the doorway.

"Thank you," he says finally. "For tonight."

I glance up, caught off guard by the simple gratitude. "Everyone seemed to enjoy it."

"More than that." He enters fully, closing the distance between us. "You gave them something they've been missing. Something I didn't realize we needed."

"And what's that?" I ask softly.

"Connection," he says, the word clearly unfamiliar on his tongue. "Humanity. A reminder that we're more than just soldiers in an endless war."

The admission—so honest, so unlike the carefully controlled Marco I first met—touches something deep inside me. I move to him, drawn by an invisible force I no longer have the strength or desire to resist.

"It's what I needed, too," I confess, resting my hands against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath my palm. "To remember who I am beyond all this. Beyond the fear and the violence and the constant uncertainty."

Marco's arms encircle me, pulling me against him. "And who are you, Sasha Gillespie?" he asks, his voice a low rumble against my ear.

"I'm the woman who loves you," I say simply, the words falling from my lips with natural ease, as if they've been waiting there all along. "Despite everything. Because of everything. I love you, Marco Walsh."

He freezes for a heartbeat, as if my declaration has physically stunned him. Then his grip tightens, almost painfully.

"Say it again," he demands, his voice rough with emotion.

"I love you," I repeat, looking up to meet his gaze, letting him see the truth of it in my eyes. "I love you, and I'm not running anymore."

The kiss that follows is different from any we've shared before—not driven by desperation or fear or pure physical need, but by something deeper, something that feels dangerously like hope. Marco's hands cradle my face as if I'm something precious, something to be cherished rather than possessed.

When we finally part, both breathing hard, I see in his eyes a vulnerability I never thought possible for a man like him.

"I don't know how to do this," he admits, the confession clearly costing him. "How to love someone without destroying them."

"We'll figure it out," I promise, reaching up to touch his face. "Together."

For once, Marco doesn't argue, doesn't try to warn me away, or remind me of the dangers that shadow our relationship. He simply holds me closer, as if I might vanish if he lets go.

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