VIOLET
I love waking up next to Marcello, seeing his face first thing in the morning. Looking into his stormy gray eyes and feeling more cherished than I ever have in my life.
This is what I imagine heaven to be like, this quiet no man's time, after the night is over and before the day has quite broken yet.
When it's just him and me—well, and Felix snuggled into my side, purring quietly.
When we just look at each other, knowing we were meant for one another.
But, like all beautiful moments, it doesn't last long.
A phone rings. Surprised, I realize it's mine.
The number is blocked, probably spam, but I answer it anyway.
"Hello?"
"Violetta." The voice on the other end opens a floodgate of memories I didn't even know I had. I shoot up straight.
"Who is this?"
"It's me, Violetta, you—" Marcello rips the phone out of my hand, his face twisted grimly.
"Who is this?"
"Let me speak to my daughter."
"How the fuck did you get her number?" Marcello spits.
The shaking begins in my toes, from where it slowly crawls up my legs, turns my stomach freezing. I know that voice.
Violetta! Papà ti ama, piccola Violetta—Papà loves you, little Violetta. Despite a feeling of warmth and love swarming inside me, I'm shaking like a leaf.
"No, you listen to me, don't you ever call her again. If you do, it'll be the last fucking thing you ever do, capiche?" Marcello tosses the phone away and turns to me. "Are you alright? Violet?"
Before I can answer, he pulls me into his strong arms. His hands rub firm, slow circles into my back, anchoring me even while the rest of me feels like I'm slipping under. I'm trembling, though I'm not cold. My breath stutters. My heart's racing like it's trying to outrun something I can't see.
Marcello leans close, his voice softer now. "It's alright. I've got you, tesoro. You're safe. No one's going to hurt you."
But I barely hear him.
Papà ti ama, piccola Violetta. That voice. Deep, warm. A memory sneaks past the iron gates of time. A laugh, low and rumbling. A flash of a dark suit, a hand lifting a doll and making it dance clumsily across the table. Me, giggling, clapping my little hands.
"You like that, stellina? Your papà's got moves, huh?"
My body gives slightly, and Marcello tightens his grip.
"Hey, hey. Look at me." His voice pulls me from the fog. His hands come up to cup my cheeks. His thumbs brush away the tears I didn't even realize were falling. "You're okay. You're here with me. Breathe, baby. Just breathe."
"I—" I blink up at him. "I remembered something."
He studies me, waiting, patient and intense. "What did you remember?"
"My dad…" I whisper. "He used to call me piccola Violetta. I saw him… playing with me. Laughing." The image vanishes almost as fast as it came, leaving behind only the ache of its absence. "It was so warm. He wasn't a monster."
Marcello's jaw tightens slightly, but his hands stay gentle. "Maybe once, he wasn't. People change, sometimes for the worse. Doesn't mean that part of him wasn't real."
"I don't know what to do with this." My voice breaks.
Marcello pulls me into his chest again. "You don't have to do anything with it right now. Just stay here. Let me hold you. That's all you need to do."
It's so easy to let him embrace me, to fall back and relax against him, but with the same certain clarity that made me fill out the DNA test, I know what I need to do now. "I want to talk with him. I want to meet him."
"I don't think that's a great idea, tesoro. He tried to have you killed, remember?"
I do remember. I remember all those dead bodies, soldiers who worked for my father and Marcello.
Soldiers who died because of me. Soldiers whose names I don't even know.
But I also remember something else, something Marcello told me about their conversation.
"You said, he said they got carried away. They weren't supposed to harm me."
"No," Marcello replies dead serious, "only to abduct you."
Put it that way, he has a point. But neither can I disregard how desperate he must have been. "Isn't there a way to meet him on… neutral ground? I really want to talk to him."
Marcello pulls back to look me in the eyes. When he realizes how serious I am, he sighs. "We're not going to Vegas," he emphasizes.
I nod.
"Let me see what I can arrange."
"Thank you," I sling my arms around him.
"And we have to be married first," he specifies. When he sees my mystified expression, he explains. "You will be better protected bearing my last name."
"Alright." I agree.
"I'll arrange it as soon as we're back from the Maldives." He squeezes me tightly. "Do you feel better now?"
I nod. "Yes, thank you. I should probably talk to Elaine and Sebastian."
He nods absentmindedly and dials someone's number on his phone.
Whoever he's calling, I feel sorry for them.
I've never seen Marcello this enraged, but in all honesty, it's freaking hot.
I only hear part of the other person on the phone, but I'm pretty sure Marcello is putting the fear of God in him.
"Boss—"
"You stupid, useless figlio di puttana," he cuts in, venom drips from his voice. "Do you have any fucking idea what you've done?"
There is either silence on the other end, or I can't hear the reply.
"He called her. He. Called. Her. Violet's father got through. After everything I said—after every goddamn instruction I gave you to block every number, trace every burner, build a fucking wall between her and every ghost from that life—he called."
"I—Marcello, I don't—" I hear a stutter. I should feel sorry for the man, but I'm too fascinated by looking at my fiancée.
"Don't what? Know how? That's right. You don't. Because if you did, this wouldn't have happened. You had one job. One! To keep her safe. You think I give a shit if he used a satellite, magic, or smoke signals? I don't care how he got through. I care that he did.
"If she's rattled, if she loses even one minute of sleep because you can't manage the basics, I swear to God, I will bury you so deep your bones will fossilize.
You hearing me?" I should truly be mortified, but I'm not.
Seeing Marcello in his full mafia glory, protecting me, is just…
makes me feel… I don't even have the words for it.
I know with one hundred percent certainty that nothing will ever happen to me with this man watching out for me, over me.
"Yes, sir."
"No more chances. Lock every channel. Strip her number from every traceable record. And if he so much as breathes in her direction again, I want to know before he exhales. Capiche?"
"Capiche."
He hangs up, takes a deep breath, and looks at me with a mix of concern, attempting to reassure me. "He won't call you again unless you want him to."
"Marcello… " I drift off, because I don't have the words yet to explain how he just made me feel.
His brows draw together, and he moves his hand through his already ruffled hair. "I'm sorry you had to hear that. I never wanted you to see—"
I break him off, "That was fucking hot." I breathe out.
He blinks a few times before his arrogant smirk returns to his face. "You thought that was hot?"
I nod. "Definitely."
"You are one amazing woman, you know that?" He leans in and kisses me. After a moment, I gently push him away so I can see his face.
"Nobody has ever done anything like that for me." I try to explain my emotions.
"That's on them. From now on, nobody will dare scare you; you're mine to protect, and I always will."
I'm pretty sure I'm staring at him with the same idiotic expression as the proverbial damsel in distress after the dragon was slain, but I can't help it.
This man is just so much more than I ever expected.
To others, he might be a criminal, a killer, a mobster, but to me, he is all those knights in shining armor and heroes combined.
Even Sir Lancelot, for all his glory, was seen one way by his enemies and another by Guinevere.
Not that I'm comparing Marcello to Sir Lancelot—he's far more handsome and deadly.
Lancelot had a sword and a code. Marcello has an army and no mercy.
But where others see danger, I see devotion.
Where they see blood on his hands, I see warmth in the way those same hands hold me like I'm something breakable and precious.
He doesn't need a shining sword or a banner to announce who he is. He walks into a room, and the air shifts, people move, power hums at his heels like a well-trained beast. And yet here he is, holding me like I'm the most important thing in his world.
God help me, but I love him. I blink, trying to chase the foolish awe from my face, but it's useless.
He sees it. Of course he does. His mouth curves in that devilish way that tells me he knows exactly what he's doing to me.
Knows exactly how far gone I am. Without meaning to, I let the words burst from my lips. "God, I love you."
The moment they're out, I freeze. For a heartbeat, so does he.
We stare at each other, frozen in time. I know it's wrong to expect him to say the words back just because I said them.
Even more so because he already told me that he doesn't think he's capable of expressing them.
Still, now that I practically shouted it out, there is a certain level of expectation in me.
I know he won't. Not because he doesn't feel it, but because Marcello isn't a man who wields words like weapons or gifts.
He wields actions. Loyalty. Blood and steel and unspoken promises.
I know this, and I try to tell myself this is all I need.
But I can't push away the hope that maybe… someday…
He studies me with those burning, unreadable eyes for a moment that feels like it stretches into forever.
Then he leans in, so close his forehead brushes mine.
His hand comes up and cups the side of my face—strong, steady, careful like always—and he whispers, voice rough with emotion he can't hide, even when he tries. "You're mine, Violet. Now and always."
It's not an answer. It's not the words I long to hear, but they're a vow. A vow heavier than three little words could ever be.
My hands lock behind his neck, the tips of our noses touch, just like our foreheads, as he leans down and I rise to my tiptoes. I don't need anything else.
Not from him.
Not ever.
I press my forehead harder against his, close my eyes, and let myself believe it—let myself feel every unspoken thing he gives me. The love he can't say but still wraps around me like armor. And then he kisses me again. It's not a careful or tentative kiss. It's everything.
Everything he doesn't say—everything he doesn't know how to say—poured into one searing, claiming kiss.
And I know, without a doubt, that I'm loved.
Even if he never says it.