Chapter 27 Marcello
Marcello
Sometimes in your life, you find yourself drifting. Out at sea. Through a snowstorm. In the air. It could be anything or anywhere. Anything could have triggered it. You’re just aimless, divided between what was and what is, or what could be.
Alessio’s death was that trigger for me.
And when I found Samira, I was that aimless boy drifting out at sea. Minding my own business. Going about my life. If you could call it living. Waiting for what, exactly? I didn’t know.
Until Samira.
She came into my life at the most pivotal of times, like a comet tearing through the sky—unexpected, violent in its beauty, impossible to ignore. And here she stayed.
Weeks.
She had been with me two weeks now, and in that time she had quietly rearranged the furniture of my existence.
I’d spent almost every waking hour by her side, watching her interact with Tone, listening to the soft rise and fall of her voice, the pauses where memory should have been.
I left only when necessity demanded it—calls I couldn’t ignore, men I couldn’t neglect, responsibilities that reminded me who I was supposed to be.
But even when I was gone, my attention stayed with her.
The pain had dulled. Not vanished—grief doesn’t work like that—but softened, like a blade worn down by use. I was more focused. More alert. Less adrift. As if my mind, which had been circling the same dark waters since Alessio’s death, had finally found something to anchor to.
Her.
Samira moved through the house like she didn’t want to disturb it, or me.
Careful steps. Gentle hands. Always apologizing for taking up space she had every right to occupy.
She smiled often, but it never quite reached her eyes, like part of her was always watching from a distance, waiting for something bad to happen.
I recognized that look.
It was the same one I saw in the mirror.
She didn’t remember my face. The face of the man who’d carried her into my home like she was a rag-doll. Some days, I wondered if that made this easier or worse.
And still—still—she looked at me through unseeing eyes like I was the most solid and safe person in her life. And that made me wonder if she’d ever known safety in her life.
That was the problem.
I’d spent my life being many things. Protector. Enforcer. Monster, when required. But safe?
I’d never considered myself safe.
And then tonight, she did something reckless and brave.
Something that nearly broke me.
She sat in front of me, eyes steady despite the tremor in her hands, and offered herself up like it was the most natural thing in the world. No fear. No hesitation. Just trust.
The kind that crushes your ribs.
I wanted her. I wanted her in a way that had nothing to do with habit or hunger and everything to do with need. A deep, unrelenting pull that settled low in my chest and refused to leave.
I had never wanted a woman like this.
Not with this intensity. Not with this restraint clawing at my spine.
But she was vulnerable. Even if she didn’t believe it. Even if she sat there, proud and unbowed, telling me she knew what she was asking for.
She didn’t remember what I looked like before. Didn’t remember the blood. The violence. The worst parts of me.
What if she opened her eyes one day and saw me clearly—really saw me—and ran?
The thought hollowed me out.
How do you reject a woman without rejecting her?
How do you say no without teaching her she’s unwanted?
I watched her breathe. Watched the way her throat moved when she swallowed, waiting for my answer. I could feel the moment stretching, tightening, like a wire pulled too thin.
I wanted to take her face in my hands and tell her the truth.
That she had me in a chokehold and didn’t even know it.
That she’d pulled me back from a place I wasn’t sure I could escape.
That every instinct I had was screaming to claim her, protect her, burn the world down if it meant keeping her safe.
But I didn’t.
Because wanting her wasn’t enough.
Because wanting her wasn’t the same as deserving her.
I moved away from her and she felt it as I shifted off the bed.
The movement felt wrong in my body, like forcing myself away from warmth into the cold. Her expression flickered—not hurt, but uncertainty.
That nearly undid me.
“I won’t,” I said.
Two words. Heavy and loaded.
She frowned. “You don’t want me?”
Christ.
I wanted to laugh at the cruelty of that question. Wanted to shake my head and tell her she had no idea how badly she’d misjudged this.
“I want you.” It was the truth, bare and sharp. “That’s not the issue.”
Her brow furrowed. Stubborn. Brave. “Then what is?”
I saw the pain and uncertainty in her eyes. Every part of me wanted to close the distance between us. “You’re still finding your feet,” I told her. “You’re still healing. And I won’t be another man who takes something from you because it’s easier than waiting.”
Silence fell between us.
She didn’t look away.
That, more than anything, told me how deep this already ran.
“You’re not taking.” Her voice was soft, certain. “I’m choosing.”
And God help me, I believed her.
But believing her didn’t erase the fear. Didn’t silence the voice in my head reminding me that power, imbalance, memory loss—these things twisted good intentions into regret.
I reached out, stopped myself just short of touching her. The restraint burned.
“I need to know,” I started, voice low, “that when you choose me, you’re choosing with clear eyes.”
Her lips parted, like she wanted to argue. Then she hesitated.
Just for a second.
That was enough.
I stepped back again, putting space where my hands wanted to be. “Not tonight. Not like this.”
Her shoulders sagged, not in defeat, but in reluctant understanding.
And in that moment, I knew something terrifying.
This wasn’t temporary.
This wasn’t desire that would fade with time or distance.
Samira wasn’t a distraction from my grief.
She was the thing that had survived it.
And if I wasn’t careful, she would own me completely.
Not because I took her.
But because I was already hers.