CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Marco
I WATCH AS Sasha rushes toward her dog. She kneels beside Buddy, whispering soothing words as he retches onto the expensive rug. Her hands move with practiced care across his fur.
"He can't have steak," she mutters without looking up. "His stomach can't handle rich food."
I remain close to the desk, keeping my expression neutral despite the warmth spreading in my chest. "I'll keep that in mind."
When she finally glances up, our eyes lock. That familiar mixture of defiance and vulnerability hits me like a physical blow. Christ, she's beautiful—even now, disheveled and angry, with worry etched across her face. The memory of our kiss burns on my lips, a mistake I knew better than to make, but one I'd make again in a heartbeat.
"Do you have any towels?" she asks, her voice softer now.
I shake my head and push away from the desk, stepping out into the hallway. It doesn’t take long to spot one of my security.
“I need you to clean up some vomit,” I say. A flicker of revulsion sparks in my security man’s eyes. They can dismember people, but the thought of cleaning up vomit is too much. But he nods and hurries off to fetch cleaning supplies. I step back into the room and crouch down beside Sasha.
"Come on," I say, my voice firm but not unkind. "Let's get him somewhere more comfortable."
Without waiting for her response, I scoop Buddy into my arms. The dog weighs more than I expected but settles against my chest with surprising ease. I carry him to a spare living room down the hall—one rarely used, with furniture still covered in plastic.
Sasha follows, her eyes wide with surprise. "You don't have to—"
"Sit," I command, nodding toward a leather armchair as I gently place Buddy on a rug near the fireplace. The dog looks up at me with sad eyes before settling his head on his paws with a sigh.
Sasha hesitates near the armchair, but clearly, she isn’t going to settle. “There is a small bathroom through that door.” I point to the door I’m speaking about. “He has a small bit of vomit on his paw.”
She seems happy to be doing something and leaves. I hear water running, and she returns with a damp cloth. She kneels beside Buddy and begins gently cleaning his paws, her movements tender.
"Thank you," she says quietly, not looking up. "For carrying him."
I don’t answer but watch her work.
As she tends to the dog, I notice the graceful line of her neck, the way a strand of hair falls across her cheek, how her hands move with such careful precision. It strikes me that I've never seen anyone in my world show such gentle care for anything.
"He'll be fine," I say, and I'm surprised by the softness in my voice. "Dogs are resilient."
She glances up at me, a flicker of something—gratitude, maybe—in her eyes. "I know. I just worry about him."
As she finishes cleaning the dog’s paws, I can't help but remember the first time I saw her all those years ago. Just seventeen, she'd been—too young, too innocent, too good for the likes of me. The daughter of a low-level gambler, she should've been beneath my notice. But there was something about her even then—a quiet strength, a dignity that seemed to rise above her circumstances.
I'd kept my distance. Men like me destroyed women like her. It was the natural order of things.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. Lucas again, third time tonight. I send it to voicemail and straighten up; decision made.
"Clean yourself up and get some rest," I tell her, my voice leaving no room for argument. "I have business to attend to."
She looks up, wariness creeping into her expression. "What kind of business?"
"The kind you don't need to know about." I step back, mentally shifting gears. "Be ready for tomorrow. We still have the charity event."
Her eyes widen. "After everything that's happened? Baz is in the hospital. Your brother—"
"All the more reason to stick to the plan," I cut her off, my tone hardening. "Whoever's behind this is watching. Changing our routine signals weakness."
She shakes her head, incredulous. "You're unbelievable."
"I'm practical," I counter. "And this isn't up for debate."
I expect her to fight back—almost want her to. The fire in her eyes when she challenges me is addictive. But instead, she just looks tired.
"Fine," she says flatly. "Whatever you say, Marco."
Her resignation bothers me more than her anger would have. I've spent years building walls around myself, cultivating fear and respect. But with Sasha, I find myself wanting something different, something I have no right to ask for.
I cross the space between us in two strides and crouch back down before I grasp her chin, tilting her face up to mine. Her pulse jumps beneath my fingers, but she doesn't pull away. Instead, she meets my gaze unflinchingly.
"There's a dress in your room," I tell her, my voice low. "Wear it tomorrow. You'll be on my arm, and every man in that room will wish he was me."
Something flashes in her eyes—confusion, anger, maybe a flicker of desire. Good. I prefer her spark to her surrender.
I release her and step back, enjoying the flush that spreads across her cheeks. With Sasha, I've always walked a careful line—wanting her, knowing I should never have her.
Her voice stops me as I turn to leave.
"Marco."
I glance back, something in her expression making my chest tighten.
"I meant what I said," she tells me, her voice steady despite the blush still coloring her skin. "Two days. Then I get my sister, and we're gone."
I hold her gaze for a long moment. "We'll see."
As I walk away, I can feel her eyes on me, burning into my back like a brand. She doesn't understand yet. She can't.
No one leaves unless I let them.
And I'm not ready to let her go.
Three hours later, the basement of my property echoes with a scream. Blood spatters across the concrete floor, joining the stains from countless interrogations before. The metallic scent hangs heavy in the air, mingling with sweat and fear.
I pace slowly around Malone, who's bound to a steel chair bolted to the floor. The restraints cut into his wrists where he's struggled, blood seeping from beneath the zip ties. His face is a mess—right eye swollen shut, nose clearly broken, lip split in three places. His shirt hangs in tatters, exposing bruised ribs and burn marks where Tony applied the car battery earlier.
"You know, Malone," I say conversationally, as if we're discussing the weather, "I've always considered myself a reasonable man."
He spits a glob of blood onto the floor, his breathing ragged through broken teeth. "Boss, please—"
"Reasonable," I continue, ignoring his plea, "but thorough. And right now, my reasonable mind is telling me you're lying."
I nod to Mike, who steps forward with a hammer. Malone's eyes widen, panic making his chest heave.
"No, no, no—" he chokes out, struggling frantically against his bonds.
"I'll ask you one more time," I say, my voice deadly calm as I crouch in front of him. "Who did you tell about Sasha? Who knew she would be with Baz in that car?"
"Boss, I swear, I didn't—"
The hammer comes down on his left pinky finger with surgical precision. Bone cracks, and Malone's scream tears through the basement, bouncing off concrete walls like a trapped animal. I don't flinch, maintaining eye contact as he writhes in agony.
"That's one finger," I inform him, as if he might have missed it. "You have nine more, and then we move to toes."
I've gathered only my most trusted men—Tony, Mike, and two others who've been with me since the beginning. Everyone else is suspect until proven otherwise. Tony leans against the wall, cleaning his fingernails with a knife, the picture of boredom. But I know him well enough to see the tension in his shoulders, the alertness in his gaze.
"Someone," I continue, standing to my full height, "told our enemies exactly where to find Baz and Sasha. Someone wanted them dead."
I let the statement hang in the air, heavy with implication.
"So here's where we are, Malone. You were on guard duty. You let Sasha leave with Baz. Minutes later, Baz is shot and nearly killed. So either you're incompetent," I pause, letting him absorb the gravity of his situation, "or you're a traitor."
Malone's good eye darts around the room, seeking any hint of mercy and finding none.
"I thought—I thought Baz had your permission," he stammers. "He said he was taking her to see her father at the hospital."
"Baz would never assume such authority," I say softly. My calm tone seems to frighten him more than any shouting would. "Try again, or we remove the next finger."
His breath comes in panicked bursts. "Maybe…maybe I stepped away. For a smoke. That's all it was, I swear to Christ."
I study him for a long moment, my expression betraying nothing. Then I pull a chair directly in front of him and sit, our knees almost touching. I take out my silver cigarette case—a gift from my father on my twenty-first birthday—and extract a cigarette. The flame from my lighter illuminates the fear in Malone's face as I light it.
"A smoke," I repeat, taking a long drag. "So you abandoned your post for what, five minutes? Ten?"
He nods eagerly, desperately. "Just a few minutes, that's all."
"And during those few minutes, Sasha just happened to leave with Baz."
"Yes, exactly," he says, relief flooding his voice. "Bad timing, that's all it was."
I exhale a thin stream of smoke directly into his face. "And did you tell anyone about your little smoke breaks? About the gaps in our security?"
His relief vanishes. "N-no, Boss."
"No?" I raise an eyebrow. "Not even when Ian asked about our security protocols last week?"
Malone's face goes slack with shock. "How did you—"
"You think I don't know what happens in my own house?" I lean closer. "Who else did you talk to, Malone? Who else knows about our routines, our movements?"
"No one, I swear—"
I nod to Tony, who steps forward with the pliers. Malone's screams intensify as Tony rips out a fingernail with practiced efficiency.
"I want names," I say, standing up and brushing invisible dust from my trousers. "Every person you've spoken to about our operation in the last month."
"Jesus Christ, Boss, there wasn't—" His words dissolve into another howl as a second fingernail joins the first on the floor.
I turn my back, feigning disinterest, and walk to a small table where a bottle of Jameson sits beside a single glass. I pour myself a measure, taking my time.
"It's going to be a long night, Malone," I tell him, not bothering to turn around. "How much of it you survive is entirely up to you."
Behind me, I hear the wet sound of Malone retching from pain and fear. I wait until he's finished before facing him again.
"Let me tell you what I think happened," I say, sipping my whiskey. "I think someone approached you—someone with authority, someone you were afraid to refuse. They asked questions, and you answered. Maybe you didn't think you were betraying me. Maybe you thought you were just following orders from higher up."
Something flickers in his expression—recognition, guilt.
"But here's what you don't understand," I continue, setting down my glass. "There is no higher authority in this house than me. Not when it comes to Sasha's safety."
I step closer until I'm looming over him, the overhead light casting my shadow across his broken form.
"This is your last chance," I say, my voice barely above a whisper. "Who. Did. You. Tell?"
He breaks, as they always do.
"Ian," he sobs, head hanging in defeat. "Ian said your father wanted to know about security, about who was coming and going. Said it was a test."
I straighten up, nodding slowly. "And what exactly did you tell him?"
"Everything," Malone admits, his voice hollow. "Shift changes, weak points, who was assigned where. He asked specifically about the girl—how she was guarded if she ever left the house. And if she did, give him a call."
I exchange a look with Tony, whose face has hardened into stone. This confirms what I've suspected—the betrayal leads back to my father's inner circle. Malone is saying it was an order direct from my father, but that is what Ian said; that doesn’t make it true.
"Do you know what happens to men who betray me?" I ask softly.
Malone's eyes widen with genuine terror. "Boss, please—I didn't know—"
My gun is in my hand before he can finish, the movement so fluid it's almost graceful. "Make an example of him," I tell Tony, pressing the weapon into his hand. "Make sure everyone hears about it."
"Marco, please," Malone begs, his voice cracking. "I've got kids—"
"You should have thought of them before," I say, already turning away. The pleading dissolves into broken sobs behind me. I don't look back. In this business, betrayal means death. No exceptions. Not even for men who've served faithfully for years.
In my office upstairs, I pour another measure of Jameson, the whiskey my father always favored. The familiar burn steadies me as I process what we've learned. Malone isn't clever enough to orchestrate this on his own. He was following orders—orders that came from Ian, one of my father’s men for twenty years.
The muffled sound of a gunshot comes from below, and I close my eyes briefly. Another necessary death, another message sent. This is the weight of leadership—making choices that keep blood off your hands while knowing it still stains your soul.