CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Sasha
I WAKE BEFORE dawn, the unfamiliar weight of Marco's arm around my waist is a reminder of how much has changed. His breathing is deep and even, his face relaxed in sleep in a way it never is during waking hours. I study him in the dim light—the sharp line of his jaw, the dark sweep of his lashes, the small scar above his right eyebrow that I've learned came from a childhood fight with Lucas.
So much violence in his history, written across his body in scars and tattoos. Yet here, asleep beside me, he looks almost peaceful. Almost ordinary.
But Marco Walsh is anything but ordinary, and the illusion of normalcy shatters as soon as I slip from the bed and glimpse the gun on his nightstand, the bulletproof vest hanging over a nearby chair. Today, he meets with the O'Reillys—a confrontation that could end in bloodshed. The thought makes my stomach clench with fear.
I dress quietly, not wanting to wake him. He needs the rest, especially considering what lies ahead. Down the hall, I pause at the door to Lily's room, easing it open just enough to confirm she's sleeping soundly, Buddy curled protectively at her feet. The sight brings both relief and a fresh wave of anxiety. My sister looks so small in the massive four-poster bed, her stuffed rabbit clutched tightly even in sleep.
What have I brought her into? She wants to see Dad; she has no idea he was attacked. I lied, saying he had gotten a bad bug and is in the hospital recovering. I’m afraid of letting her see him and all the marks on his face. One step at a time, I remind myself.
I make my way downstairs, the grand hallways of the Walsh estate silent but for the occasional guard making their rounds. They nod respectfully as I pass—Marco's orders, no doubt. The staff has been instructed to treat me not as a guest or captive but as the woman of the house. A surreal elevation that still doesn't feel quite real.
Karen made her disapproval clear last night, her hushed, angry words still ringing in my ears: "Have you lost your mind, Sasha? This man is dangerous. His entire world is dangerous. How could you bring Lily into this?"
I had no satisfactory answer then. I have none now.
The kitchen is empty when I arrive, the industrial-grade appliances gleaming in the pre-dawn gloom. This space, at least, feels familiar. Kitchens have always been my sanctuary—first at home with Mom before her illness, then at culinary school, and during my internships. No matter how chaotic life became, cooking centered me, gave me purpose and control.
I need that now more than ever.
The refrigerator and pantry are well-stocked but clearly underutilized. Marco's staff keeps the basics on hand, but there's an institutional feel to the provisions—functional rather than inspired. I begin pulling out ingredients, my mind already mapping out recipes, a menu forming instinctively.
By the time the sun has fully risen, I've settled into a rhythm, kneading dough for fresh bread, chopping vegetables for soup, marinating meat for tonight's dinner. The familiar motions soothe my frayed nerves, giving my hands something constructive to do while my mind processes everything that's happened.
Lily finds me there around eight o'clock, rubbing sleep from her eyes, Buddy trailing at her heels.
"You're making cinnamon rolls!" she exclaims, her face lighting up as she recognizes the familiar scent. "Like Mom used to."
I smile, wiping flour from my hands. "I thought you might like something special for breakfast. Want to help with the icing?"
She nods eagerly, climbing onto a stool at the counter. I guide her through measuring confectioner's sugar and vanilla, watching as her initial nervousness about our strange surroundings fades in the familiar comfort of our shared task.
"This place is huge," Lily says as she stirs the icing. "Like a castle from my books. Do you and Marco live here all the time?"
The innocent question catches me off guard. "It's Marco's house," I explain carefully. "I've been staying here while we...figure things out."
"Are you his girlfriend?" she asks bluntly, with the directness only children can get away with.
Heat rises to my cheeks. "It's complicated, Lil."
"That's what adults always say when they don't want to explain something." She rolls her eyes dramatically. "I'm not a baby, you know. I understand things."
I sigh, recognizing the determined set of her jaw. "Marco and I care about each other," I say finally. "But we come from very different worlds. That makes things...difficult sometimes."
"Because he's a gangster?"
I nearly drop the tray of rolls I'm sliding into the oven. "Where did you hear that?"
Lily shrugs, licking icing from her finger. "Aunt Karen was on the phone last night. She said we're stuck in a gangster's house and that you've lost your mind." She looks up at me, eyes suddenly serious. "Are we in danger, Sasha?"
The direct question deserves an honest answer, but I struggle to find the right balance between truth and reassurance. "Some bad people might want to hurt us," I admit carefully. "But Marco is protecting us. That's why we're here, where it's safe."
"Like a fortress." Lily nods, seeming to accept this logic. "With knights and everything."
I smile despite the gravity of our conversation. "Something like that."
"Is that why there are men with guns everywhere?" she asks, her voice dropping to a whisper. "I saw them when I was looking out my window."
My heart sinks. I'd hoped to shield her from the more obvious signs of Marco's world, but of course, Lily notices everything. Always has.
"Yes," I say simply. "They're here to keep us safe."
She considers this, her small face scrunched in thought. "Like bodyguards for famous people?"
"Exactly like that."
This answer seems to satisfy her, and she returns to her icing duties with renewed focus. I watch her, marveling at her resilience, her ability to adapt to circumstances that would overwhelm most adults. But I'm not naive enough to think this is sustainable—eventually, the reality of our situation will catch up to her. To all of us.
The kitchen door swings open, and Karen enters, dressed impeccably despite the early hour. Her gaze sweeps critically over the mess of mixing bowls and flour-dusted counters before landing on Lily.
"There you are," she says, her voice carefully neutral. "I was worried when I didn't find you in your room."
"I'm helping Sasha make cinnamon rolls," Lily announces proudly. "Like Mom's recipe."
Something softens in Karen's expression at the mention of her late sister-in-law. "That sounds lovely."
I offer her coffee, which she accepts with reluctant gratitude. We maintain a careful civility in front of Lily, though I can feel the weight of Karen's unspoken questions and accusations.
"After breakfast," I say to Lily, "why don't you show Aunt Karen the gardens? They're beautiful, and Buddy would love a good run."
Lily agrees enthusiastically, already planning which paths to explore. Karen meets my eyes over the rim of her coffee cup, her expression clearly communicating that our conversation from last night is far from over.
Before she can say anything, Marco appears in the doorway, already dressed in one of his impeccable suits, his expression guarded as he takes in the domestic scene before him. Our eyes meet, and even across the room, I feel the electric connection between us, the pull that defies all logic and self-preservation.
"Good morning," he says, his deep voice causing Lily to look up curiously.
"Are you Marco?" she asks, studying him with undisguised interest. "Sasha's boyfriend?"
I freeze, mortified, but Marco doesn't miss a beat. He crosses to the counter, extending his hand formally to Lily. "I'm Marco Walsh. It's a pleasure to meet you properly, Lily."
She shakes his hand solemnly, clearly charmed by being treated like an adult. "Your house is really big."
"It is," he agrees gravely. "Perhaps you and your aunt would like a proper tour later? There's even a game room that doesn't get nearly enough use."
Lily's eyes widen. "A game room? Like, with video games?"
"Among other things," Marco confirms, the corner of his mouth twitching in what might almost be a smile.
I watch this exchange with a strange mix of emotions. Marco with Lily—it's a collision of worlds I never imagined, yet he handles it with surprising grace. For a man who commands fear and respect in the criminal underground, he shows remarkable patience with a nine-year-old's questions.
Karen, however, remains stiff and wary, her coffee cup a barrier between herself and Marco. When he addresses her directly, her responses are polite but cold. I'm relieved when Tony appears, requiring Marco's attention for some security matter.
Before he leaves, Marco catches my hand briefly, his touch lingering. "We need to talk before I leave," he says quietly. "Find me in my office when you're finished here?"
I nod, conscious of Karen's disapproving gaze. Marco's departure leaves a strained silence in the kitchen, broken only by the oven timer announcing the cinnamon rolls are ready.
As promised, after breakfast, I send Lily and Buddy to explore the gardens under the watchful eye of Marco's security team. Karen reluctantly agrees to accompany them, though not before fixing me with a look that promises our conversation will continue later.
I find Marco in his office, bent over paperwork, his expression grim. He looks up when I enter, some of the tension leaving his face at the sight of me. I try not to look at the spot on his desk where we had sex, but it’s hard to keep my gaze trained on him.
"Is everything alright?" I ask, closing the door behind me.
"The meeting with the O'Reillys has been moved up," he says, setting aside whatever document he'd been reviewing. "I leave in an hour."
Fear spikes through me. "So soon? I thought it was tonight."
"Deckie O'Reilly likes to change plans last minute. It keeps his enemies off-balance." Marco rises, coming around the desk to stand before me. "Michael arrived this morning. He'll oversee security while I'm gone."
He takes my hands in his, his expression more serious than I've ever seen."While I'm gone, don't leave the estate under any circumstances. If anything feels wrong—anything at all—call me immediately."
The intensity of his instructions sends a chill down my spine. "You're scaring me, Marco."
"Good," he says bluntly. "Fear will keep you alert. Keep you alive if things go badly."
"Don't say that," I whisper, gripping his hands tighter. "You promised you'd come back."
His expression softens slightly. "And I will. But our world is unpredictable, Sasha. I need to know you're prepared if—"
"I'm not discussing this," I cut him off, unable to even contemplate the possibility. "You're coming back. End of story."
Marco studies me for a long moment, then pulls me against him, his arms encircling me in a possessive embrace. "As you wish," he murmurs against my hair.
We stand like that for several minutes, both of us drawing strength from the contact. When we finally part, I'm struck by the vulnerability in his eyes, so at odds with the ruthless crime boss the rest of the world sees.
"I've been thinking," I say, needing to give voice to the idea that's been forming since dawn. "Karen and Lily need some normalcy in all this chaos. We all do."
Marco raises an eyebrow, waiting for me to continue.
"I want to cook dinner tonight. A proper family meal." The words tumble out faster now. "Not just for us, but for your men too—Tony, Mike, the others who've been protecting us. You, when you return from the meeting."
"A family dinner," Marco repeats, as if testing the unfamiliar concept.
"Yes. Something...normal. Something that reminds us all that we're still human, despite everything."
I expect him to dismiss the idea as frivolous or irrelevant in the face of the dangers surrounding us. Instead, he nods slowly. "I'd like that."
Relief and something like joy flutter in my chest. "Really?"
"Really." His thumb traces my cheekbone with surprising tenderness. "Use whatever you need. The staff will assist you."
The simple permission—so domestic, so ordinary—strikes a nerve with me. This man, who commands an empire of violence and fear, is giving me free rein in his kitchen, supporting my attempt to create a pocket of normalcy in a world spinning increasingly out of control.
"Thank you," I say softly.
His phone buzzes, breaking the moment. A quick check of the screen has his expression hardening back into the mask of Marco the crime boss. "I need to go," he says, already mentally shifting into the mindset required for the confrontation ahead.
"Be careful," I plead, knowing the words are inadequate for the danger he faces.
Marco kisses me—hard, fast, almost desperate—before pulling away. "No matter what, do not leave this house," he instructs, back to giving orders. "Stay with Tony or my other men. Trust no one else."
Then he's gone, leaving only the lingering warmth of his lips on mine and the faint scent of his cologne hanging in the air.