Chapter 6 Marcello
Marcello
Don’t confuse me with a hero.
I don’t save people. I end problems. That’s what I’ve always been good at. I’ve crossed enough lines to fill a graveyard, and I don’t pretend otherwise. But four men cornering a defenseless woman in an alley outside my club?
That crossed my line.
Not because I’m noble—but because men who take without asking make me want to burn the world down.
The alley still played behind my eyes as I sat on the edge of the bed, blood drying on my knuckles. I hadn’t thought. I hadn’t weighed risk or consequence. I’d just moved. By the time it was over, the only sound left was her breathing—thin, panicked, fading.
I should’ve called someone and just walked away. Let someone else clean it up.
But she had fought to stay conscious like the world itself was trying to pull her under, and for one moment, I hesitated.
So I took her.
Now she lay in my guest bed, small and bruised, wrapped in my sheets. A stranger in a monster’s house.
The sedative I’d given her—meant to blunt the shock, kill the memories—had lasted longer than it should have. Guilt sat in my chest like a heavy burden.
I shouldn’t have touched her.
I shouldn’t have brought her here.
But I couldn’t stand the idea of her waking up screaming in that alley.
She shifted.
I looked up just as she came awake, confused and unsteady. Her fingers clenched the blankets as she tried to sit up. Her eyes moved—but not right. They slid past the room, unfocused.
She tried to speak. Nothing came.
That silence wasn’t shock.
It was something worse.
I stepped toward her—then stopped.
Her eyes didn’t track me.
She turned her face, searching. Her hands moved slowly over the sheets, over herself, through the air like she was reaching for something she couldn’t find.
The room was bright.
Her pupils didn’t react at all.
Cold dropped into my gut.
“Good morning,” I greeted her.
Her head snapped toward my voice. Not my body.
I’d put that strip on her tongue. The same one I used to steady myself when the edges got sharp. I’d never seen it do more than calm a system.
I’d never seen it steal sight.
Her breathing tightened. Her lips parted. Nothing came out.
That was when it hit me.
Not slow. Not subtle.
I had done this to her.
I’d told myself it was protection. That her mind didn’t need to remember what happened in that alley. I’d acted like I always did—fast, certain, without permission.
Now she was blind.
My jaw locked. Pressure climbed behind my eyes.
I moved closer and she flinched.
That fear—when she couldn’t even see where I was—nearly split me open.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” I said, knowing how empty it sounded.
She lifted a shaking hand in front of her face. Nothing.
“Your sight will come back,” I told her, even though I didn’t know it yet. I needed it to be true.
Her breathing went shallow.
I grabbed water and slid the straw toward her mouth. She recoiled, then froze.
“It’s water.”
After a moment, she leaned forward and drank like her body was starving.
I sat on the edge of the bed, far enough not to touch her.
“You passed out last night. You were in shock. I brought you here because you couldn’t walk.”
Her head tilted, trying to remember.
The alley.
The men.
Me.
Her breath hitched.
I’d broken people before.
But this?
This was different.
She gripped the sheets like she was bracing for another blow, and all I could think was that I should have left her alone. Taken her to a hospital. Done anything except bring her into my world.
Instead, I took her.
And I shattered something I couldn’t undo.
She turned her face toward my voice—fear and confusion tangled where trust should have been.
“I’m here,” I said, because it was the only truth I had left.
“And I’m going to help you.”
At first I chalked it up to disorientation—the drug, the shock, the way trauma stripped a person raw—but the longer I watched her, the more obvious it became.
Her gaze didn’t land anywhere. It wandered the room like she was searching for edges she couldn’t find. When she tried to speak, nothing came out. Her throat worked. Her lips parted. No sound followed.
A cold weight dropped into my stomach.
“Can you talk?” I asked in a steady tone.
She opened her mouth again. Nothing. Not even a rasp.
I exhaled through my nose, sharp with frustration—at myself. I’d done this. The drug wasn’t meant to do this. What was I thinking, giving it to a complete stranger without knowing her medical history?
I rubbed a hand over my jaw. “Okay. What’s your name?”
The second it left my mouth, I cursed myself. If she couldn’t speak, how the hell was she supposed to answer?
Idiot.
I crossed to the drawer, grabbed a small notepad and black pen. When I returned, she shrank back, so I slowed and placed them gently in her hands.
“Write. Your name.”
She hesitated, then curled her fingers around the pen. She pulled the pad close, steadied herself, and wrote in shaky letters.
Samira.
I took the pad back, my eyes dragging over the name. It fit her—soft on the surface, something ancient underneath.
Exotic.
A soft strength.
Dark edges.
I really looked at her then—the thick black curls, the rich brown of her eyes, the warm tone of her skin beneath the bruises. She was small, but not fragile. More like she’d been carrying a weight no one else could see.
“Samira,” I murmured.
Her chin lifted slightly. She’d heard it.
“You’re not Italian,” I remarked.
She shook her head.
Her movements were slow, careful, like she was learning the shape of a world she couldn’t see.
“Middle Eastern?” Another shake.
“North African?” A faint nod.
I nodded back, cataloguing her, mapping her, trying to understand who she was and why fate had dropped her into my path.
I cleared my throat. “Is there anyone you need me to call? Family… friends?”
The reaction was instant.
Her shoulders curved inward. Her eyes dropped. Her fingers clenched the blanket.
Then she shook her head—soft. Defeated.
It hit harder than I expected.
She had no one.
In a city that chewed people up, she was alone—entirely, utterly—and somehow that felt worse than anything else that had happened to her last night.
My jaw tightened. I looked away, just long enough to get control of the pressure in my chest.
Focus.
Blood stained her shirt, her jeans, my sheets. She needed a shower, clean clothes, real care.
But I wouldn’t touch her like that. She’d been through enough.
Which left one option.
“I’m calling my cousin,” I told her. “Her name’s Antonella. She’ll come here, help you clean up, get you settled. We’ll figure something out. You have my word.”
Samira lifted her head, tracking my voice. She nodded—grateful, relieved in a way that tightened something low in my gut.
Good. For now, she trusted me. Too much, probably.
“I won’t leave you alone,” I added. “Not until she gets here.”
Her fingers loosened on the blanket. She nodded again.
The room shifted—small, silent, heavy with a responsibility I hadn’t wanted and now couldn’t walk away from.
Samira.
Blind.
Voiceless.
Alone.
And somehow… mine to protect. At least for today.