Marco
MARCO
I remember the first time I saw her, Rosalind Thorn , all grit and fire, in a dress that pulled at her curves, standing up to her brother like she was ready to brawl. The air in the room had crackled with her fury, and every muscle in my body had tensed watching her. She didn't give a damn about the danger or the fact that her brother could crush her without breaking a sweat. Her eyes had blazed, dark and daring, and something in me had stirred.
" Back off, Tony ," she'd spat, fierce as any soldier I’d ever fought beside.
I'd been at Tony's side then, his shadow, his right hand. We'd been through hell together, dodging bullets and swinging fists, our loyalty forged in blood and violence. Tony and I were brothers in all but blood. Thick as thieves, they used to say, and it wasn’t far from the truth. Sure , they were from The Black Hands , but it didn't matter. Tony , Hunter , and I grew up together. We'd had hopes of merging the clans, making one giant one.
We lived large, fast, dangerous—roaring through life on engines of pure adrenaline. But even as I stood there, memories of those wild days flashing through my mind, it was her courage that day that had seared itself into my memory, how she'd faced down Tony , her own flesh and blood, for what she believed was right. It had been a sight to behold, wrapped in a giant neon sign flashing "no."
" Fuck ," I muttered under my breath, the ghost of a smile tugging at my lips despite the darkness that usually clung to my thoughts. That girl had guts. And that same spirit had captivated me, had me fantasizing now about her in ways I had no right to do.
Tony never knew how close he came to losing everything that day—not just his sister’s respect but my loyalty, too. He never spotted the hunger in my gaze every time Rosalind walked into the room or the way my fists clenched when he barked orders at her like she was a dog. He knew she wanted nothing to do with that life, yet he tried using her to gain the loyalty of men who were far too old to be into the likes of her. Rose was a year younger than we were. At 18, we figured we had the world sorted out, but that beautiful little spitfire... she almost crushed it single-handedly because if any of those men had laid a finger on her, I would have killed them on the spot.
" Damn it," I slammed my fist into the wall, turning away from my bedroom window. I couldn't afford distractions, not with the world we lived in. Not with the stakes so damn high. Not with Hunter as her husband. He was a wild card, if there was ever one.
But Rosalind ... she was a distraction I couldn't shake. Every curve of her body, every defiant tilt of her chin—it was like a drug. My hands itched to touch her, to claim her—and that desire was a betrayal of everything I stood for. Loyalty . Family . The Crew .
I was torn, caught between the devil and the deep blue sea. Loyalty to my brother-in-arms or the pull of a woman who could very well be my downfall. Fear echoed in my mind as I debated on grabbing her and running, making a life for us somewhere up north, Canada , maybe. Just get lost in the wilderness. A whisper in the wind. But I knew better. Hunter would track us. Kill us both, just to say he could. He was the best tracker I knew.
I paced the room, each step a dull thud against the floor, each breath a battle against the image of her in my head. The memory of her laughter, the sound of it more intoxicating than the finest whiskey, had me clenching my jaw tight enough to ache. Who would have thought that I'd see her here? Married to the likes of him? He'd never bothered me as much as he did that day at the altar. Not realizing the fucking gift in front of him. The treasure.
Blood . That's what I remember most about the day Tony's life bled out onto the dirt. It mixed with the earth, dark and thick, a stain that wouldn't wash away no matter how hard the rain fell in the days after. My fists clenched at the thought, knuckles going white as bone. The image of him lying there, eyes staring up at nothing, it haunted me.
Years , that's how long it'd been since I'd seen Rosalind . A damn decade. We'd drifted, like leaves on a damn raging river, after Tony's casket hit the ground with a thud of finality. She vanished into thin air, a ghost of a girl with laughter that echoed through my dreams, taunting me. But ghosts don't bleed, and they sure as hell don’t marry men like Hunter Desmond .
Then , like a punch to the gut, she was back. Not the Rosalind I knew, not the girl with the sun in her hair and wildness in her eyes. This one, she was different. Changed . Her face was the same, though, as those dark eyes that saw right through you. And fuck, did she see through me when our gazes locked across that crowded room .
I felt it then, that familiar tug, like a hook lodged deep in my chest, yanking me towards her. She was sold to preserve The Black Hands . The thought made me want to rip Vitto limb from limb. She deserved whatever semblance of a life she had before being forced to come here. To live with the monster that monsters feared. Hunter’s wife. A crown of thorns rested heavily on her brow, and the weight of that realization settled like lead in my stomach.
The memories roared back, unbidden. The curve of her smile, the scent of her skin—hell, even the way she used to scrunch her nose up when she laughed. It was all there, etched into the back of my skull, a tattoo of forbidden thoughts. I wondered if she still had that spark in her or if it was forever gone.
Hunter had marked her as his. Wasted no time. Didn't even give the woman a wedding. And here I was, coveting what wasn't mine to take. Wanted her in ways that would get a lesser man killed—or worse, tortured by Hunter's twisted brand of justice.
Her presence was a heat that singed the edges of my self-control. Each time she moved, each whisper of the fabric against her skin was an inferno threatening to burn me alive. It was a dance with the devil, watching her, knowing that touching her would be like reaching into the flames .
A low growl rumbled in my throat, the sound more animal than man. Hunter didn't deserve her; he couldn't appreciate the life she held inside, the very thing that made her more than just another trophy on his arm. But what the hell could I do? I was his right-hand man, sworn to follow orders and uphold the code of the Cinder Crew .
But , Christ , I wanted her. Every inch of her body, every beat of her heart— I wanted to possess it all, to claim her as mine in defiance of the underworld we called home. The thought of her under me, the taste of her lips, it was enough to drive a sane man mad.
" Fuck ," I breathed out, the word a prayer and a curse. To have her was to betray everything. But without her, it felt like I was already walking through hell with no end in sight.
The conflict raged within me, a war of loyalty and desire, and I knew, deep down, it was a battle I was destined to lose.
Y esterda y
Blood splattered across the grimy floor, droplets staining my shoes. I stood amidst the chaos; knuckles cracked and sore from the necessities of service. Hunter's grunt of satisfaction sliced through the din of groans from the beaten man at our feet.
" Make sure he understands. He never should have touched my girl." Hunter had said, his voice cold as the steel of his eyes. A nod was all it took - his command, my silent acquiescence. The rules were simple, and loyalty was unbreakable. But damn if Rosalind's image didn't flash before me with every punch I threw.
I spat out the taste of iron, the copper tang that clung to my tongue. Christ , what I wouldn't give to wash away the grime of this life, to cleanse myself in her laughter, to feel her touch soothe the deep-seated ache for something more than this endless cycle of brutality.
" Finish it, ," Hunter barked, the shadows under his eyes noticeable in the dim lighting of the cells. His heavy hand on my shoulder felt like the weight of the world, anchoring me to this dark reality.
In a swift motion, I reminded the poor bastard on the ground who ruled this concrete jungle. My actions were mechanized, rehearsed—yet each crack of bone screamed in discord with the yearning in my chest .
" Good ," Hunter grunted, flashing a twisted grin that never reached his nearly black eyes.
But when I closed my eyes, it wasn't the broken body at my feet I saw—it was her. Rosalind , with curls wild as the tangled paths of my conscience. Her dark eyes shimmered with the reflection of a life I could never have, one where I wasn't suffocating under the mantle of another man's sins. She'd never forgive me if she knew what I could do. What I was capable of.
" Tie him up," Hunter had snapped, "make sure he's strung up for when Sofia gives her the tour. I want her to see what we can do."
I dragged the guy out, dumping him in another cell, a smaller one, with no bucket, no light... no hope. I strung him up, as requested, and left the cell. Knowing the girl would see it and understand what happens to those who cross Hunter Desmond .
I leaned against the cold brick wall, the texture biting through my shirt as if to wake me from this madness. Thoughts of her were a poison, coursing through my veins with the sweetest agony. She deserved better.
" Damn it," I muttered. The path was a razor's edge, and I teetered on the brink. To have her, even for a moment, would be to dance with damnation itself. My desires were a treacherous tide pulling me under, threatening to drown what little honor I had left in the abyss.
A part of me—a monstrous, selfish shard of who I once was—screamed to take her, to claim the only shred of heaven I'd ever known. But the consequences... they'd be a hurricane, leaving nothing but wreckage in its wake. Hunter's wrath was not something you survived—it obliterated everything in its path.
" Fuckin ' hell," I hissed, shoving off the wall. My body was a temple of strength, a weapon honed for destruction, but inside, I was being torn apart by a war no one could see. It was a battle between desire and duty, love and allegiance. I knew the stakes. Crossing that line with Rosalind meant burning bridges I couldn't rebuild. It meant betraying the man who trusted me with his empire, his secrets, his life.
A relationship with Rosalind wasn't just playing with fire—it was strapping dynamite to your chest and begging for a spark. I had to stay chaste, keep my hands, and my heart locked away. But Christ , every fiber of my being, wanted her. I clenched my fists until the knuckles whitened, the pain grounding me, reminding me of who I was. fucking Giovetti , Hunter's right hand. A man born and bred in darkness, doomed to walk a path stained with blood and shadow.
For now, I'd shove these feelings into the deepest pit I could find, bury them under layers of steel and violence. Because in our world, love wasn't just a weakness—it was a death sentence. And I wasn't ready to sign Rosalind's or mine. Not yet.
T he softness of Rosalind's skin haunted every goddamn thought. I imagined her beneath me, all that long black hair splayed across white sheets, her dark eyes wide with hunger. Softness in a world of shit and gunsmoke. My hands were big and rough, tracing the curve of her waist and pulling her close until there was no space between us. She'd gasp, allowing me to take her. To brand her with everything I had. Everything I'd never given to anyone before.
" Fuck ," I muttered. The image is too vivid, too sharp, like a blade twisting in my gut.
In that fantasy, there was solace, a brief escape from this hell we called home. Her laughter would ring out, not a care that the man making her moan was soaked in the same blood that tainted her past. In those moments, I'd be more than just Hunter's enforcer; I'd be the man she clung to, the one who could make her forget the sins staining her bloodline.
But Christ , the price for such a fantasy was steep. Betraying Hunter wasn't some small-time double-cross; it was signing your death warrant. He'd kill us both without blinking, that poison running through our veins as he watched the light fade from her eyes. And that'd be after he made us suffer, his stubbled chin split by that cruel grin of his.
I'd seen what happened to traitors, their screams echoing off cold concrete walls as Hunter got creative with his brand of punishment. That frog inked on his back wasn't just some twisted piece of art; it was a promise of pain, a guarantee of a slow and agonizing end. I clenched my fists again, feeling the familiar burn of restraint, muscles bulging with the effort to keep myself in check. A reminder of the power I wielded, the destruction at my fingertips if I ever let go.
Damned if I do, damned if I don't.
So I stood there, alone, letting the darkness of the night seep into my bones. Rosalind , a dream that could shatter with a single misstep. And Hunter , the specter of death, always lurking one shadow behind me. The memory of his laugh, cruel and cold, sent a shiver down my spine as I recalled him injecting that damn poison into some low-level to get information. Could I become that? To protect her, to have her... would I embrace that same sadistic satisfaction? That question clawed at my gut.
I paced like a caged animal, the confines of the room pressing in, mirroring the captivity of my own making.
Would I make the selfish choice and sign our death certificates? Or do I watch as a man I've stood beside since childhood broke her soul, piece by piece?