Chapter 6
He stopped. His gaze dropped from my eyes to my lips, lingering there with a heavy, suffocating hunger before snapping back up.
“I want you to be safe,” he finished quietly. “Even if you hate every minute you spend in this house.”
“I don’t hate it,” the words tumbled out before I could stop them.
It wasn’t part of the operational script. It was a mistake.
Marco went completely still. The silence stretched between us, thick with unspoken desire, danger, and the impossible gulf of who we were supposed to be. For three beats of my heart, I thought he was going to cross the small space between our chairs, take my face in his hands, and kiss me until my lungs gave out.
The physical pull between us was almost magnetic, charged with the sweet, illicit heat of a protector who had lowered his shields for the first time in his life.
Then, the heavy library doors were thrown open with a violent bang.
***
“Boss! We got a situation at the gate!”
The spell shattered instantly.
Marco was on his feet before the echo of the door slamming back against the wainscoting had died. The scotch glass was set down without a clink, and his hand was already inside his unbuttoned shirt, resting on the grip of the SIG Sauer.
A burly lieutenant named Rocco—Salieri’s appointed liaison to the northern crews, a thick-necked enforcer with dead pig eyes and a crooked nose—strode into the room, followed by Nico. Both men smelled of wet gravel and gunpowder.
“What is it, Rocco?” Marco demanded, his voice transforming into pure ice, the weary protector vanishing beneath the terrifying mask of the capo.
“Salieri’s personal detail is at the outer barrier,” Rocco said, his voice laced with aggressive insolence. His eyes immediately darted from Marco to where I sat frozen in the armchair, taking in the empty soup bowls and my flushed face. A greasy smirk twisted the lieutenant’s thick lips. “They’re demanding entry. The Don received an anonymous tip that Frankie Vane didn’t die alone. Said someone matching the description of that florist from Fulton Market was seen getting pulled into your armored truck.”
My breath hitched. I let out a sharp, choked gasp, pulling my legs up onto the armchair and curling into a ball, trembling visibly.
Rocco took two heavy steps toward me, his boots scuffing the Persian rug. He looked down at me like an enforcer sizing up an easy target.
“Look at this,” Rocco sneered, crossing his thick arms. “Little Miss Petals playing house with the capo. You really kept her, Bellini? You risked the entire northern territory for a civilian witness? Salieri’s men are at the gate with orders straight from the Commission. Hand her over. We’ll take her down to the canal, put two in the back of her head, and the problem goes away before sunrise.”
“Get your eyes off her, Rocco,” Marco said.
The tone wasn't loud. It wasn't angry. It was a dead, flat whisper—the kind of sound that precedes an execution.
Rocco, emboldened by the crew waiting at the perimeter gate, didn't back down. Instead, he took another step toward my chair, reaching out a leather-gloved hand toward my face.
“Come on, sweetheart,” Rocco spat. “Let’s see how loud you scream when the water—”
What happened next was a blur of swift, lethal efficiency.
Marco didn’t draw his weapon. He crossed the distance in a single, explosive stride.
Before Rocco’s fingers could come within inches of my skin, Marco’s left hand clamped around the lieutenant’s wrist like an iron vise, wrenching the arm away with brutal leverage. With a sharp, practiced movement, Marco drove his shoulder forward, pivoting his weight into a punishing right cross that caught Rocco squarely across the jaw.
The impact was concussive.
Rocco was thrown sideways, crashing heavily into the low coffee table. The antique wood cracked under the impact, sending porcelain and silver clattering to the floor alongside spilled minestrone. Rocco hit the parquet in a stunned heap, the wind knocked clean out of his chest, dazed and clutching his bruised jaw.
I let out a sharp, terrified gasp, scrambling backward over the arm of the chair, falling onto the rug with my knees drawn to my chest, burying my face in my hands.
Nico’s hand twitched toward the holster inside his jacket.
“Touch that piece, Nico, and you leave this room in a box,” Marco warned.
His voice was dead level, cold as winter stone. Nico went rigid instantly, his hands freezing against his lapels, all color draining from his face.
Marco didn’t waste another blow on the fallen lieutenant. He stood over Rocco with the absolute authority of a sovereign in his own hall. Bending down, he grabbed Rocco by the heavy lapel of his overcoat, hauling the two-hundred-pound man upward just enough to force him to look into his eyes.
“You listen to me,” Marco murmured, his voice carrying the finality of a death sentence. “You go back to that gate. You tell Salieri’s dogs that there is no florist here. Frankie Vane died because he was a traitor, and if Salieri wants to question my jurisdiction, he can bring the entire Commission before my council.”
Rocco wheezed, his eyes wide with shock and fear, the arrogance completely driven out of him.
“And make this clear to every man standing on my gravel,” Marco continued, his gaze pinning the lieutenant like a spear. “Chiara is under my roof. That means she is under my name and my protection. Anyone who looks at her, anyone who so much as speaks her name without my permission, will answer to me directly. Do you understand me?”
“Yes... yes, Capo,” Rocco rasped out.
Marco released him with disdain, stepping back as the lieutenant scrambled awkwardly to his feet, leaning on the corner of the bookcase for support.
“Get him out of my sight,” Marco commanded Nico. “Lock down the inner gates. Anyone crosses the stone pillars without my authorization, put them down.”
“Understood, boss,” Nico muttered, quickly steering the shaken lieutenant through the double doors and pulling them shut.
The heavy library fell deathly quiet, save for the crackle of the hearth and the muffled whistling of the storm against the glass.
The room smelled of cedar smoke, spilled broth, and hot iron. Marco stood amidst the broken porcelain, his white shirt slightly wrinkled, breathing deeply as the lethal capo slowly receded.
He turned toward the corner where I sat curled on the floor, trembling with ragged, shallow breaths.
“Chiara,” he murmured, the cold edge vanishing from his voice entirely.
He crossed the rug and sank to one knee before me. He didn’t crowd me. His large, scarred hands remained open, hovering inches away, terrified that reaching out too quickly might startle me after the violence.
“It’s alright,” he said gently, his low baritone thick with an aching, desperate tenderness. “He’s gone. You’re safe, cara. Look at me.”
I looked up through my lashes, tears spilling over my cheeks. I let myself lean forward, letting my forehead rest against the solid warmth of his chest, my hands catching the crisp fabric of his shirt.
Marco let out a long, shuddering exhale, his arms wrapping around me, drawing me close against his broad frame. His touch was firm, protective, shielding me as if he could absorb the entire world's danger on my behalf.
