She speaks to me like family.
And it… sticks.
Not in the soft, sentimental way. I don’t do soft. But somewhere beneath the sharp edges and old scars, it carves a space. And for the first time—the first fucking time—I understand something I hadn’t wanted to see. I thought I couldn’t kill Marcello because of Sophia. But maybe that isn't all of it. Maybe I didn’t want to burneverything down and walk away, not because of her… but because ofthem. Marcello. Enrico. Toni. Stephano.
I've always considered them collateral damage.
I’ve left collateral damage behind countless times.
Never thought twice.
But now?
I slow.
Not stop. Never stop.
But I think. I think there might be more behind alliances, friends, and family than I've given them credit for. There might even be more power behind it than leverage, threats, and war.
For a man like me? That’s a beginning.
I reach the office door and knock once.
"Come in," Marcello calls.
I enter, already on guard. He’s standing by the window, the skyline blazing behind him in golden light. His sleeves are rolled up, and there’s a tension to him that wasn’t there yesterday, not during the ceremony, not even during the wedding toast.
"You wanted to see me?" I say, closing the door behind me.
Marcello turns slowly. He doesn’t gesture to a chair; he doesn’t smile. "This won’ttake long."
He walks to the bar to prepare an espresso, raising an eyebrow in question. A few minutes ago, I would have said no. But after Violet's words, I hesitate before I nod.
"I’m not going to waste words," he begins. "I love my sister. And I’ve already failed her once."
I don't reply; just wait. The sound of the espresso machine is loud between us as he lets the silence stretch for a moment. "My father was a violent man. A proud man. He hurt my mother in more ways than one. And she took it. Every time. Do you know what that does to a boy?" His eyes cut to mine. "Watching your hero fall on her knees in front of a monster andthankhim for it?"
I'm not sure where he's going with this, because he should know by now that I'd never hurt Sophia. Fuck, I was the one who took her away from that hellhole. Not him.
Marcello steps forward, handing me the espresso, but his expression is anything but hospitable. "I see how Sophia looks at you. And I know how dangerous that kind of love is for women like her.
"My father was a prick, an upstart like you—a lowlife soldier who somehow blackmailed his way to the top. Mamma was a mafia princess, just like Sophia, and instead of appreciating her for what she brought to the table, he resented it. Resented her and made her pay for his inferiority complex."
He lets that settle before he continues, making a second cup for himself. "I don’t give a fuck if you’re Margarita'sson. Or what you do with the line you just inherited. If you hurt her—physically, emotionally, in any way—I will find a way to take you down. I’ll tear your kingdom apart, brick by brick, until there's nothing left but your name in the dirt."
The room goes quiet. Even the damn espresso machine hushes like it knows what’s about to happen.
Rage coils in my gut, slow and deep.
Who the fuck does he think he is? Like I’d ever lay a hand on Sophia. Like I’m the threat. Where was he—this righteous protector—when she was bleeding behind locked doors? When her spirit was breaking inch by inch, collar by collar? Where was he when she screamed with nightmares or cowered away because I grabbed something from behind her?
He didn’t kill Roberto.
I did.
He didn’t walk through hell to find her.
I did.
