Chapter 35 Marco
MARCO
"FUCK!" I yell, hitting the passenger seat.
My jaw clenches so tight I can hear my teeth grinding. All I can think about is Alina. Alone. In danger.
Horns blare as I cut through traffic, but I couldn't care less about angry drivers right now. I need to get to her.
"Come on, come on." I hit redial. The phone rings, each unanswered tone driving another spike of panic through my chest. My heart pounds against my ribs like it's trying to break free.
"Goddammit." I slam the steering wheel again when her voicemail picks up. "Answer me!"
Horrible scenarios flash through my mind: Alina bleeding out on her apartment floor. Alina being tortured for information about my family. Alina dead because I didn't warn her in time about the Russians.
I shake my head violently, trying to remove the images from my thoughts.
"Please, God," I whisper, surprising myself with the prayer. I haven't believed in years, but right now, I'd sell my soul to any deity listening if it meant Alina was safe. "Please let her be okay."
I unlock my phone again and open my texts with her, hoping I missed something. But those two words stare back at me.
Please help.
It almost makes me sick.
My phone vibrates, and I nearly crash trying to hit the answer button. It's not Alina. It's Gio.
"What?" I bark into the speaker.
"Marco, where the hell are you?" Gio asks. "The Russians—"
"Fuck the Russians!" I cut him off, my voice a feral growl. "They've got Alina. Or they're after her. I don't know. I'm heading to her place now."
"Shit," Gio says. "I'll send some men."
"No!" I shout, swerving to avoid a cyclist. "No one else. This is on me. I'll handle it."
"Marco, you can't—"
I end the call. My brother means well, but this isn't family business. This is personal. If those Russian bastards have touched a hair on her head, I'll tear them apart with my bare hands.
I take a hard right, tires screeching. Alina's building is just up ahead, and even from here, I can see her windows are dark. No movement, no sign of life.
I slam on the brakes as I jump the curb. The car rocks violently as it climbs the sidewalk. My heart's pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat as I leap out of the car, leaving the engine running and the door wide open.
I sprint into the building, running straight to the elevator. My finger presses the call button repeatedly.
The elevator opens and I burst inside, stabbing Alina's floor number and frantically pressing the 'close door' button.
As the elevator starts its climb, I slide my hand under my jacket, wrapping my fingers around the grip of my gun, ready to draw at a moment's notice.
Second floor.
Third floor.
Fourth floor.
The numbers tick by too slowly. My breath comes in short, sharp bursts.
That's when I hear it.
Thump. THUMP.
The sound echoes down the elevator shaft, growing louder as I ascend. My stomach twists into knots as I realize it's coming from Alina's floor.
Fifth floor.
Sixth floor.
The banging gets louder. More violent. What the fuck is that?
Seventh floor.
Eighth floor.
My heart plummets when I realize where the loud banging is coming from.
It's on Alina's floor.
I draw my gun, clicking off the safety.
The elevator stops. For a split second, there's silence. I point my gun at the door, readying myself for whatever's on the other side.
I'm coming, baby.
The doors slide open, and my heart stops.
Alina stumbles toward me, wearing my shirt, now stained crimson. Blood covers her hands, red splatter streaking across her face. Her eyes are wide, unfocused. She takes another unsteady step and starts to fall.
I put my gun away and lunge forward, catching her before she hits the ground. Her body feels small and fragile in my arms, trembling like a wounded animal. The metallic smell of blood fills my nostrils, making my stomach clench.
I glance down the empty hallway, every nerve on high alert for potential threats. But there's nothing—just the elevator humming and Alina's labored breathing.
"Alina?" My voice comes out rough, desperate.
I cup her face in my hands, tilting it up to examine her.
Blood is everywhere, but I can't tell how much of it is hers.
My protective instincts explode into overdrive, demanding I hunt down whoever did this to her.
But first, I need to know she's good. "Are you hurt?
Are you okay? Where's the blood from? What happened? "
She looks up at me, and it takes a moment for those green eyes to finally focus on mine. She blinks, and tears make clean trails through the blood on her cheeks.
"Marco." Her voice is weak. "I... I killed him. Oh God, I think I killed him."
My blood runs cold. "Who? Who did you kill, sweetheart?"
"Him. He's Russian. He," she takes a moment to take a few breaths, "he shot up my apartment. I hit him with a pan in the kitchen. I hit him so hard, Marco."
Relief floods through me—she's alive. She fought back.
I smile. "Of course you did," I say, stroking her hair. "I've got you," I say, my voice thick with emotion. "I've got you, Firefly. You're safe now."
My relief is short-lived, however, as rage follows almost immediately after. They came for her. In her home. The place where she should have been safe.
The elevator doors start to close, but my body is block them. They bump against me, trying to shut, then retract with a soft whirring sound. It happens again, but I ignore it, holding Alina tighter as she trembles in my arms.
"I have to go check," I say, my voice low despite the rage building inside me. "I need to see if he's still alive."
Alina's bloodstained fingers dig into my arms. "No, Marco, please," she begs. "Let's just go. Please."
My jaw clenches. The thought of walking away when someone hurt her makes my blood boil.
I gently wipe away the mixture of tears and blood on her cheeks.
"I can't do that, Alina,” I say softly. "No one gets to threaten you.
Cause harm to you. Even looking at you wrong deserves my wrath. This ends now."
I gently pull her into the elevator, shrugging off my jacket.
She's shaking her head, tears coming down her face. "Marco, don't."
I jam my jacket between the elevator doors, ensuring they won't close.
"Marco," she pleads, but her voice dies in her throat as I pull out my gun.
This is the first time she sees me not as the charming candidate, but as the a Bonventi. The side of me I've always been. The side I tried to keep from her, but now she’ll see that I'll do anything to protect what's mine.
She looks at the gun and then at me, eyes wide, her face a ball of nerves.
"Just trust me. Stay here."
She nods, understanding. I can see she's resisting both reaching for me and speaking.
I turn and start walking down her hallway, my footsteps silent on the carpet. The rage inside me is ice-cold now, focused. I can feel Alina's eyes on my back, but I don't turn around. I can't. If I look at her again, it might be the last time I ever see her.
I keep walking, my gun leading the way. Whoever this Russian piece of shit is, he made the biggest mistake of his life coming after my woman.
And I'm going to make damn sure his life ends as a consequence. That's if Alina's pan didn't finish the job.
The door to Alina's apartment is ajar, splintered wood around the lock showing where it was kicked in.
I push it open slowly with my left hand, my right firmly gripping my gun, finger resting just outside the trigger guard.
As I open the door, I see all the bullet holes.
Son of a bitch shot through the door before barging in.
Shit, she didn't even have a chance to hide.
The living room is a disaster. Shattered glass crunches under my feet as I enter. The beautiful harp I bought for Alina lies in pieces, its strings snapped and frame splintered. Bullet holes pepper the walls, and the smell of gunpowder still hangs in the air.
As I scan the area, I hear a beeping coming from the kitchen, the place she said she'd hit him.
I follow the sound, gripping my gun tighter with each step. I turn the corner, and I see him. The Russian. He's lying on the floor, a pool of blood around him. I point my barrel at him and take a few more steps closer, seeing a sizeable dent in his skull where Alina must have hit him with the pan.
He's still breathing, his chest rising and falling in shallow, ragged gasps. His eyes flutter as I approach, unfocused and glazed over.
I keep my gun trained on him as I circle around, kicking aside his gun and shards of broken plates. His eyes track my movement, still unfocused.
Blood trickles from his mouth, mixing with the growing pool beneath him. The smell of copper mixes with something burning in the oven.
"Who sent you?" I demand, my voice firm and dangerous.
He coughs, splattering more blood on his chin. His lips move, but no sound comes out.
"I asked you a fucking question," I snarl, kicking him. "Who. Sent. You?"
A wet laugh escapes him. "иди на хуй."
I don't know much Russian, but I know that.
"Fuck me, huh?" I yell. "No, fuck you," I say, driving my foot into his ribs. His groans are music to my ears.
"Answer me!" I roar.
Rage boils inside me. This piece of shit tried to kill Alina, and now he won't even man up and give me what I want.
He coughs again, then spits blood onto my shoe—a crimson splash against Italian leather. His next words come out with a heavy Russian accent: "I'm going to kill that bitch."
Something snaps inside me. The world goes red, and the rage that floods through me is unlike anything I've ever felt. It's absolutely murderous.
Before I even realize what I'm doing, I've pulled the trigger. The Russian's body jerks as the bullet tears through his chest.
But it's not enough. The fury is consuming me now, and he's not dying fast enough.
I adjust my aim and fire again, this time into his gut. This one's deliberate. I want him to feel it. Want him to understand the consequences of threatening what's mine. He screams—a wet, gurgling sound. I watch as he writhes in agony, blood bubbling from his mouth again.
I watch him thrash around, I remember Alina's terrified face, the blood on her clothes. My third shot punctures his lung. The wet, gurgling sound he makes as he gasps for air that won't come is deeply satisfying.
Almost as much as Alina's music.
His eyes are wide with terror now, all defiance gone. He knows this is how he dies—how the last thing he will see is me standing over him as darkness comes for him.
I lean in close, pressing the barrel of my gun against his forehead.
"I want you to know something before you die," I say, my voice cold and steady. "This isn't just about you attacking her. This is about sending a message. To your bosses. To anyone who might think of coming after her or my family again."
The final shot goes straight through his forehead, execution-style. His body goes limp, eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. Blood pours out onto Alina's kitchen floor.
I stand up slowly, my ears ringing from the gunshots. The kitchen is a mess of blood and brain matter. I walk over and turn a timer off, the beeping finally stopping.
Next, I turn the oven off, black smoke starting to leak out. Whatever was in there is completely black.
I pull out my phone, blood still hot in my veins as I dial Gio. My hands are steady despite what just happened—what I just did. Years of experience have taught me how to compartmentalize.
"We have a problem," I say the moment he picks up.
"Shit. Are they at Alina's? I'm—"
"Russian hit Alina's apartment," I say, cutting him off. My jaw clenches as I look at the corpse bleeding out on her kitchen floor. "He's dead. Need immediate cleanup."
"Fuck." A pause. "Alina?"
"She's alive. Fought back. Hit him with a pan before I got here. But this wasn't random, Gio. This was coordinated with the warehouse hit."
"Okay, listen to me. I'm already on my way. Take Alina and get the fuck out of there. I've got our best coming with me."
"Thanks, brother," I say. "And one more thing."
"What?"
"Leave the body someplace the Russians will find it. I want to send a message."
Gio laughs. "Sure, what's the message?"
I take a breath. "That you don't fuck with the Bonventis. And she's one of us."
There's a pause on his end. "Consider it done. Now get out and maybe call the chief too, you know."
Yes, I do. The chief will keep the police away.
"I'll call him now."
"Okay. Take care, brother."
"Thanks, you too," I say, ending the call.
I take one last look around the kitchen, committing the scene to memory.
And as the adrenaline starts to fade, a new emotion creeps in—fear.
Not for myself, but for Alina. She’s seen it now, the man I’ve kept hidden behind the charm and control.
The part of me that doesn’t hesitate, that puts four bullets in a man without blinking.
I wonder if she’ll look at me the same way again—or if I’ve just destroyed the one good thing I had.
I can't dwell on this too long, however. I need to get back to her and get her the hell out of here.