Chapter 21 - Marco
The surgeon’s second update is no better than the first. Her voice crackles through my phone, each word another nail in my chest. “The nerve damage is extensive, Mr. Rosetti. Your brother’s hands…”
I stand at my office window, Dante's blood still crusted under my fingernails, staining the cuffs of my shirt.
The afternoon sun mocks us all, too bright for a day that started with bullets and betrayal.
The office still reeks of gunpowder from my jacket, mixing with the copper scent of blood that won't wash clean.
"How extensive?" My voice comes out flat, controlled, nothing like the rage building in my chest.
"We've repaired what we could. The bones will heal, but the fine motor control… it may never fully return. I'm sorry."
Fine motor control. The hands Dante uses to speak, to communicate everything his damaged throat cannot.
Gone because I trusted my wife's judgment.
Because I let emotion override years of careful planning.
My throat burns from the tension of the last few minutes, from holding back the roar that wants to escape.
The office door opens behind me. I don't turn, but I smell her.
My cologne on her skin from yesterday when I was inside her, mixed with fear-sweat from the restaurant.
My cock twitches traitorously at the memory, even as rage consumes everything else.
Valentina hovers in the doorway, fresh clothes draped over her arm.
"Marco, I brought you something clean to—"
"This is family business." The words come out sharp enough to cut. I end the call with the surgeon, still not turning to face her.
"I am family." Her voice carries that defiance I used to find intoxicating. Now it just reminds me of her suggesting that restaurant, so confident in childhood memories. "Let me help. We need to coordinate a response to—"
"We?" I finally turn, and she takes a step back at whatever she sees in my face. "There is no we in this. My brother is lying in a hospital bed because of your brilliant strategy."
She flinches but doesn't retreat. The clothes slip from her fingers, pooling on the floor between us. "I didn't know—"
"Exactly. You didn't know." I move to my desk, spreading out territory maps that blur together through exhaustion and fury. Dante's blood flakes off my knuckles as I clench my fist. "You should check on your sister. Make sure she's comfortable."
The dismissal hangs between us. She takes a step forward, hand reaching toward me. My body betrays me, leaning toward her warmth for a heartbeat before I sidestep the contact like it's poison. Something flickers in her eyes. Hurt, confusion, the beginning of understanding.
"Marco, please. I can help plan the counterstrike. I know how my father thinks, how—"
"No." The word drops between us with finality. "You've helped enough."
The door slams open hard enough to crack against the wall. Luca storms in, violence radiating from every movement. There's blood on his knuckles, someone else's, knowing my brother. His eyes track between Valentina and me, noting the distance, the tension.
"This is what happens when we go soft!" He kicks a chair, sending it spinning. "When we let outsiders into planning sessions, when we trust anyone who isn't blood."
Valentina goes rigid, but I don't defend her. Can't defend her. Not when Dante's blood is still under my fingernails. The words I should say stick in my throat like broken glass.
"Where were you?" I ask instead, voice deadly quiet.
"Handling the Irish soldier we captured. He's very talkative now." Luca's smile is all teeth and madness. "Seems they've been planning this for weeks. Just waiting for the right neutral ground."
My phone rings. Ana's number. I answer on speaker, a mistake I realize too late.
"Is it true?" Ana's voice shakes with fury. "Sofia just told me. Valentina suggested the meeting location?"
The silence stretches between us like a garrote, tightening with every breath. Valentina's face drains of color as understanding dawns. I see her hand drift to where I marked her throat yesterday, an unconscious gesture that makes the heat of my anger burn hotter.
"Ana—" she starts.
"Don't." Ana's voice cracks. "Don't you dare. My husband might never sign again because of your mistake. Because you thought you could play strategist."
"That's enough," I say, but the damage is done.
"I hope you're satisfied," Ana continues, furious tears evident in her voice. "You wanted to be important? Congratulations. You've destroyed the one person in this family who couldn't speak to defend himself."
The line goes dead. Valentina stands frozen, arms wrapped around herself like she's holding her pieces together. For a moment, I want to comfort her. My hand moves toward her, old instinct to pull her against me like I did yesterday, but I force it remain still.
"You're locking me out?" Her voice is small, disbelieving.
"I'm handling this how I should have from the beginning. Alone."
She stares at me for a long moment, those dark eyes now hollow with hurt, then turns and leaves without another word.
With a nod, I tell Luca to leave and close the door behind them.
Through the security monitors on my desk, I watch my wife pace the hallway outside.
Back and forth, back and forth, like a caged animal realizing the bars are real.
Luca passes her, his eyes tracking her movement with interest he's never shown before.
My hand moves to my gun before I catch myself.
An hour passes in cold planning. I'm mapping strike coordinates when Sofia knocks, three sharp raps that demand attention.
"What?" I don't look up from the maps.
"We have a problem." She enters without invitation, closing the door behind her. "Alice is missing."
My pen stills on the paper. "What do you mean missing?"
"She was asking questions about old family business earlier." Sofia's voice carries an edge of concern I rarely hear. "She overheard something during the chaos when we got back. Something that upset her about the past."
"Old family business." I set down the pen, finally looking at my sister. The weight of old sins presses against my chest. "What exactly did she overhear?"
"I don't know. She was near the kitchen when some of the older guards were talking. Something about the old days, about how things used to be handled. Marco, she kept asking if our families had more history than she knew."
Ice forms in my chest. Some secrets are better buried with the dead. "Where is she now?"
"That's the problem. She's gone. Alice is missing from the compound." Sofia moves to the security monitors, her fingers flying over the keyboard. "I tried to find her but she's not in any of the common areas."
The screens flicker through different cameras. Empty hallways, the garden, the garage. All empty. I pull up the footage from two hours ago, when we first returned from the restaurant. There, in the chaos, while we arrived home dripping in blood, a small figure slips through the kitchen door.
"Fuck." I rewind, watch again. The footage clearly shows her escape during our return. Alice, moving with the kind of purpose that means she's not coming back. "She left during the chaos. We were all distracted."
"She must have heard something that scared her," Sofia says. "Or made her angry enough to run."
The video timestamp shows ninety minutes ago. She could be anywhere in Chicago by now. Another Bernardi sister in the wind, another tactical problem to solve because I let emotion cloud my judgment.
The door shudders under impact. Not a knock, someone throwing their shoulder against it. Valentina bursts through, breathing hard.
The sight of her competent, defiant, sends heat through me despite everything. My brilliant, infuriating wife.
"Alice is gone!" The words tumble out desperate, raw. "I went to check on her and her room's empty and—"
"I know." I turn the monitor to show the security footage, her sister's escape replaying on loop.
"We have to go get her!" She crosses to the desk in three strides, hands slamming down on the wood, leaning forward. I catch a glimpse of the bruise I left on her throat yesterday. Mine, even when I can't trust her judgment. "Now, Marco. Right now."
"It's a trap." The words come out cold, factual. "Just like your restaurant was a trap."
She flinches, but doesn't back down. "I don't care if it's a trap. She's my sister, Marco. The only family I have left that matters."
"And Dante is my brother." I stand, using my height to tower over her, feeling the heat radiating from her body, remembering how she felt beneath me at dawn yesterday.
"He might lose his hands because I listened to you.
Because I let you convince me that childhood memories were enough for tactical assessment. "
Something dies in her eyes. I watch it happen, watch the light go out. But her voice stays steady. "So you're not going to help me?"
"I didn't say that." I turn back to the maps, shutting her out with my body language even as every instinct screams to grab her, to keep her close where she's safe. "But you're not coming. You're excluded from any rescue plans."
"Excluded." She repeats the word like poison. "From saving my own sister."
"You've done enough." Each word is deliberate, designed to cut. "Every time I let emotion override judgment, people get hurt. My people. So yes, you're excluded. Go wait in our bedroom while I handle this properly. I promise you, I'll get Alice back."
The words burn my tongue. Part of me wants her there, safe, where I can find her after the blood settles. Another part knows that locking her away makes me just like her father, everything she detests.
The silence stretches between us, heavy with everything broken, everything that might never heal. When she finally speaks, her voice is hollow.
"Is that what I am now? Just another wife to lock away when she becomes inconvenient?"
I don't answer. Can't answer. Because saying yes would be a lie, but saying no would mean admitting she still has power over me. And that power nearly cost me my brother today.
"We will talk about this tomorrow, Valentina. Right now, I have several problems to address. Like getting Alice back."
She stands there studying my face, and I watch her memorizing every line, every shadow. Like she's creating a portrait to carry with her. The scrutiny makes something twist in my chest, something that feels like a rib breaking inward.
"I understand," she says finally, and the resignation in her voice is worse than anger would have been.
She turns and walks out without another word. No slammed door, no tears, no pleading. Just footsteps fading down the hallway, measured and final. My hands ache to grab her, pull her back, slam her against the wall and remind us both who we are together. Instead, I let her go.
I turn back to my war plans, but the maps blur together.
My cock is still half-hard from her proximity, from the memory of yesterday when she rode me until we both shattered.
Her taste is still on my tongue. Coffee and need and that sound she makes when she comes.
My hands shake as I try to mark coordinates.
Fuck. I can't focus. The clean clothes she dropped are still on my floor, and her scent rises from them with every movement of air.
I last thirty seconds before I'm storming toward our bedroom.
She needs to understand the tactical situation.
That's all. I need her to know why she has to stay here, safe, while I handle the blood work.
My body moves on autopilot, already anticipating the fight, the way her eyes will flash with defiance, the way I'll have to press her against the wall to make her listen, the way that always ends with us tearing at each other's clothes.
The bedroom door swings open, and I'm already speaking. "Valentina, you need to understand—"
Empty.
Not bathroom-empty. Not stepping-out-for-a-moment empty.
Gone empty.
We haven't spent the night here together, always choosing to stay at the penthouse, but she usually has books scattered about the room so she can retreat here after family dinners.
But on my pillow, my pillow, not hers, sit her mother's rosary beads.
The ones she clutches when she's scared. The ones that never leave her pocket.
Left behind. Deliberately.
My chest constricts. She didn't wait. Didn't obey. Didn't play the good wife locked in her tower.
She's not waiting for me to save Alice.
She's going after her sister herself.
I'm already moving, grabbing my jacket, my gun, calling Tommy to bring the car around. But even as rage consumes me, something else burns hotter.
Five minutes. She has a five-minute head start into whatever hell she's chosen.
And when I find her, when, not if, I'm going to remind her exactly who she belongs to. Right before I kill anyone who dares to lay a finger on her.