7. Marco
Marco
The five days since my wedding have been the longest five days in the history of time.
I hold the front door open for Luca as he departs with a curt nod, his laptop and ledgers tucked into an RFID-blocking backpack as he heads for the subway that will take him to his apartment. We’ve spent nearly the entire day scouring security channels and digging through our digital files.
Someone has been stealing product mid-transport, and the unsolved theft is driving Luca batshit crazy. I suppose it should drive me batshit crazy, too, since it’s technically my money, my business, and my empire now, but none of that seems to matter much to me these days.
I haven’t been the pinnacle of helpfulness.
To get Luca off my back, I made some inquiries last night while I was at the strip club with one of the dancers-turned-informant.
She’s an invaluable asset, though her loyalties lie with whoever pays the most for information.
After securing a handful of Benjamins in her thong, she shared where and when our latest shipment of weapon parts was most likely to be hit, and I relayed the intel to Luca today.
“I’ve already sent men to the drop-off point to take care of it,” I told Luca, pleased when he straightened in surprise.
Normally, I leave operations planning to him. If my men intercept the thieves, though, I can concentrate on investigating Papà’s death while simultaneously avoiding my new wife, and Luca can return to doing whatever it is he does without me.
It’s a win-win-win.
Now that he’s gone, I climb the stairs to the second floor and pour myself a drink. Throwing it back in one go, I immediately pour another and take a large gulp. The alcohol burns on its way down, the sting familiar and welcome.
Still dressed in the pair of sweats and the Swarmer hoodie I threw on after my workout this morning, I burrow my bare toes into the rug that stretches over the unforgiving wood floor and settle behind my desk.
My nose wrinkles. I swear my wife’s plum and vanilla scent still lingers in the air, and my cock twitches again over those sweet little grunts she tried to suppress during her spanking.
Focus, idiot. The Council. Dante. Enzo.
Although, those topics aren’t half as inviting as the memory of my prickly bride’s deliciously round ass.
Reclining in the chair, I force myself to concentrate.
The Council claims Dante murdered Enzo to conceal his Codebreaking relationship with Sara and that Giovanni helped, but there has to be more to the story.
Both Luca and I were front-row center for Dante and Sara’s relationship.
No one knows better than we do the lengths Dante went through to keep Sara out of the Council’s clutches.
According to the autopsy reports I…borrowed, Giovanni and Enzo were shot by bullets from the same gun. A Desert Tech MDRX to be specific, identifiable by the cartridges left behind at the scenes of both murders.
The gun in question, a bullpup rifle, isn’t exactly discreet.
Thirteen inches long, it’s a mix between a shotgun and an AK-47 with a scope, all wrapped in a compact body.
The barrel is smaller, but since you don’t sacrifice any firing speed or power in exchange for maneuverability, it’s perfect for shooting targets in tight spaces.
While that weapon would have done the job, it’s far from inconspicuous. If Dante had killed Enzo like the Council claims, someone would have noticed him walking into SilverTech with that beast.
Unfortunately, this information still doesn’t tell me who actually murdered Papà. Or why. It merely confirms my suspicion that the shooter and Enzo are connected. Exhausted and a little lightheaded from drinking on an empty stomach, I prop myself against the window by the desk to survey the city.
Through the trees, I locate a familiar figure trooping across the street with an umbrella in one hand and a coffee in the other. Bianca’s dressed in a pencil-thin skirt suit that makes her legs appear unbelievably long. She trots across the street in her heels, Zo trailing closely behind.
Probably visiting her sister again. We’ve been married for nearly a week, and when she’s not upending my house, painting, redecorating, or doing some other annoying HGTV shit—probably just to piss me off—she’s running off to see her sister Livia at the coffee shop.
Rather than put a stop to the meetings, which would indicate that I care, I spend most nights out, either at my gym or at the bars, and ensure I don’t stumble home until well after her bedtime.
I have enough crap to deal with, and it’s easier to help myself forget than to watch her dismantle my life one piece of furniture at a time.
Downstairs, the door creaks open, and I wait for a telltale slam that never comes. Frowning, I peek through the window again just as a piercing scream shatters the silence.
Bianca.
I bolt up with my heart in my throat, determined to reach her before something terrible happens.
As I sprint down the staircase, faces of the deceased flicker through my head.
My mother. Armani. My father.
Even if my new bride means nothing to me, I can’t stomach the idea of losing someone else I’m meant to protect.
My drinks choose this exact moment to catch up with me, and the world tilts, my balance giving out halfway down the stairs.
Stumbling over my own feet, I barely catch myself on the balustrade in time to stop gravity from taking me out.
I leap the last of the way down, landing with a thud at the bottom of the stairs that seems to echo through the now-dead silence.
Zo stands by the front door with wide eyes. Ren hovers next to him, his typical quiet and brooding self.
I predict what’s coming before Zo even mouths the word.
Zanni.
The warning barely registers before Bianca emerges from the dining room with a stiff smile, Zanni stalking me. Tonight, he’s wearing a black button-down and slacks, and the modern clothes make his hook-nosed mask even more garish and abhorrent.
“Marco, it’s good to see you again.”
Like usual, the robotic tone strikes me as a combination of cheesy and creepy. As dangerous as the Council is, I constantly battle the urge to insist they leave the dorky voice modulation shtick to Ghostface.
“It’s good to see you as well, Councilor.” I always feel like I’m supposed to bow around these bastards, like I’m greeting royalty. Talking to them is always off-putting, and despite the booze already in my system, I’m craving a shot to temper the unease in my gut. “What brings you here tonight?”
Bianca’s eyes narrow as I slur my way through the question, but I ignore her.
Zanni trails his fingers along the walls, knocking pictures and vases askew as he travels down the hall. “I came to check on the happy couple, of course. I wanted to see how you were settling in.”
Anyone listening in would believe he was nothing more than a concerned uncle. It isn’t until he stills and slowly lowers his head that the threat becomes obvious.
I can read between the lines. The Council desires confirmation that we’re obeying their orders and maintaining some semblance of a real marriage. The “why” doesn’t matter, not when punishment can come swiftly and without warning.
“We’re doing really well so far.” I tense when Bianca slips her arms around my waist. She laughs ruefully before she continues, choosing each word with care.
I relax in my wife’s embrace, shifting so I can squeeze her arm.
Bianca smiles at me with a soft, adoring expression that lights up her face and leaves her eyes sparkling like jewels. “Things are going well between us, aren’t they, gioia mia?”
I don’t realize I’m holding my breath until my chest starts to ache, and dazed, I nod. I’ll agree to whatever she asks so long as she keeps looking at me like that.
“And here I was worried that you might be spending more time with your sister than your beloved husband.” Zanni’s chuckle lacks any real mirth, and the depthless eyeholes of his mask never waver from Bianca. “I can see now that my worries were unfounded.”
Bianca’s arms tighten around me, and her gaze darts up to seek mine. A small thing, but coming from the Ice Princess, that gesture may as well signal a five-alarm fire.
I plant a slightly sloppy kiss on Bianca’s forehead, and her eyebrows shoot up before her expression smooths once more.
Being on the same side as a Conti shouldn’t come this naturally, but neither of us wants to attract the Council’s ire, and that means playing along even with every instinct screaming at me to throw her to the wolf at the door.
When it comes to the Council, my wife and I are on the same team. The enemy of my enemy is my friend, and all that jazz.
In the spirit of being a team player, I pat her ass, jiggling the flesh a little for good measure. “You don’t need to worry about us, Councilor. I’ll keep her busy.”
Bianca’s entire body tenses, but she doesn’t push me away. Encouraged, I lean more heavily against her. For the act, of course.
Zanni’s boisterous laughter bounces through the hall like a weapon. “Next time you fuck her, make sure she comes at least a few times, Argento. It’ll put her right to sleep. Then you won’t have to worry about her sneaking off.”
My stomach dives when Bianca ever-so-subtly flinches. I tell myself my reaction’s from the booze and not the Councilor’s unsolicited advice. Why would I care that his crude comment bothers my wife?
I hide my displeasure behind a lazy salute. Bianca’s cheeks flush bright red, and I’m afraid she’ll shatter if I touch her.
“If you two will excuse me?”
She doesn’t bother to fake a smile anymore. Instead, she inclines her head with her typical frosty demeanor, though I get the sense that she’s about one nod away from imploding.
Without waiting for Zanni to dismiss her, she glides toward the kitchen to escape.
Zanni’s eyes glint through the mask. “You’ve got your hands full with that one, Argento. I’ll have a bottle of Macallan messengered over from my private vintage collection. I think you’re going to need it.”
Huh, maybe the Councilors aren’t so bad after all.
Zanni takes his leave with Ren trailing him like the obedient dog he is. Zo receives a text and follows them out.
Shortly after the door closes, glass shatters behind me.
I whip around. What the fuck is she doing now?
With Zo on my heels, I burst into the simple galley-style kitchen to find my wild-eyed wife dumping two bottles of my most expensive whiskey down the drain.
She glares at me as the last of the liquid coats the bottom of the sink.
If looks could kill, I’d be filleted and stuffed in a rain barrel by now.
Bianca drops the emptied bottles, and they join a slew of glass shards on the tiled floor. That damn stubborn chin of hers raises, and her next statement sets off a ringing in my ears. “We no longer drink in this household.”