CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Marco
THE SUIT IS new, custom-tailored, a deep black that almost absorbs the light. I adjust the platinum cufflinks—a gift from my father years ago—and study my reflection in the mirror. Perfect. Intimidating.The precise image I need to project tonight.
Behind me, Tony paces the room, going over security details one more time. "The perimeter will be secured by 1800 hours. Gerald will handle the east entrance, Mike the west. I'll be at your table."
I frown at the mention of Gerald. After our confrontation in the garden, I'd prefer to keep him as far from Sasha as possible. "Change of plans. Gerald stays back, coordinating from the van. I want Michael at the east entrance instead."
Tony hesitates. "Gerald won't like that. He said your father specifically requested—"
"I don't give a fuck what my father requested," I snap, turning from the mirror. "Gerald goes nowhere near Sasha tonight. Make that clear."
Tony nods, making a note on his tablet. "Understood, Boss."
My mind replays the scene from the garden—Gerald looming over Sasha, that predatory look in his eyes. The rage I'd felt in that moment was unlike anything I'd experienced before. Had I arrived a minute later... I push the thought away. Gerald is my father's man through and through, which means I can't simply remove him, but I can keep him at arm's length.
"The car's bulletproof, obviously," Tony continues, wisely changing the subject. "We've swept it for devices, changed the route three times. No one knows which way we're coming except you and me."
I nod, only half-listening. My thoughts keep drifting to Sasha. I'd glimpsed her briefly being ushered into one of the guest rooms where the stylist and makeup team were setting up. The warmth in her eyes from this morning had vanished, replaced by cool reserve. Whatever she overheard between me and Gerald has put her on edge.
"Lucas called again," Tony says, breaking into my thoughts. "Said it's urgent."
I turn, my jaw tightening. "Did he say what it was about?"
Tony shakes his head. "Just that he needs to talk to you before tonight. Said it can't wait."
I check my watch. It's already 5 P.M., and we need to leave in an hour. Whatever Lucas wants will have to wait until tomorrow.
"Tell him I'll call him in the morning," I say, dismissing the matter.
Tony hesitates. "He seemed…unsettled."
That gives me pause. Lucas doesn't get unsettled. Angry, yes. Cold, always. But unsettled? That's new.
Before I can reconsider, my phone vibrates. Unknown number. I exchange a glance with Tony before answering cautiously.
"Walsh."
The voice that responds is distorted through some kind of modulator, turning human speech into something mechanical and alien. "Three hours."
I sit straighter, all my senses suddenly on high alert. "Who is this?"
"The Northside docks." The voice continues, ignoring my question. Each word is precisely measured, devoid of accent or emotion. "The shipment will be there."
My grip tightens on the phone. This shipment isn't due for another week, and only five people know the details. "How did you get this number?"
"Only a small window to secure it." The voice pauses, and for a moment, I think the call might be over. Then: "Tick tock, Marco Walsh."
The line goes dead.
Tony steps closer, tension radiating from him. "What was that about?"
I stare at the phone, ice settling in my veins. Not only does this anonymous caller know about a highly classified shipment, they know my private number—one I change weekly for security. And the "tick tock" was deliberate, taunting. Someone is playing with me, demonstrating their reach.
"Our weapons shipment is arriving tonight at the Northside docks," I say, already calculating options, timeframes, potential threats. "The one that wasn't due for another week."
"Jesus Christ," Tony breathes, face paling. "It's a setup."
"Almost certainly," I agree. "But we can't ignore it."
The shipment represents more than just money—it's power, leverage, survival. Without those weapons, we're vulnerable on multiple fronts. Every rival family, every ambitious upstart with a grudge would see it as weakness.
"What about tonight?" Tony asks, gesturing to my suit. "The senator—"
"The plan doesn't change," I decide. "I still need to have that conversation with O'Neill. The legislation is too important to ignore."
"You can't be in two places at once."
I pace the room, mind racing through scenarios. "I'll go to the event with Sasha as planned. Make the appearance, handle the senator, then we'll leave early. I can be at the docks by eleven."
"Let me handle the docks," Tony suggests. "You stay with her."
I shake my head. "No. I need to be there myself. This smells like a test—or a trap. Either way, I can't send someone else."
It's not just about the weapons, though they're valuable enough. It's about showing strength. Showing that despite Danny's death, despite the attempt on Baz, I'm still firmly in control. If I don't personally secure this shipment, it sends a message of weakness.
Tony knows better than to argue further. "I'll arrange the teams then. We'll need two squads."
"Three," I correct. "And send Lucas to the docks ahead of us. Tell him I'll meet him there at eleven."
Tony raises an eyebrow but nods. "This anonymous caller…you think it's someone inside?"
The question has been gnawing at me since the call ended. "Has to be. Only a handful of people knew about that shipment."
"Your father?"
I hesitate. "I don't know. Maybe." I run a hand through my hair, the pressure building behind my temples. "One problem at a time. First the senator, then the shipment."
Tony nods, making notes on his tablet. "I'll get everything arranged."
There's a knock at the door, and Ana enters without waiting for a response, her expression professionally blank.
"Miss Gillespie is ready, Sir."
I glance at Tony. "We'll finish this later."
He nods, taking the hint, and leaves without another word. Ana steps aside, revealing Sasha standing in the doorway.
My breath catches.
The dress I'd selected was a deep emerald, almost black in a certain light, clinging to her curves before flowing to the floor. The color brings out her eyes, making them seem even more vivid against her pale skin. Her hair is swept up, revealing the elegant line of her neck, a few strands framing her face. She's...stunning.
For a moment, I forget everything else—the anonymous call, the senator, the shipment, the tensions with Gerald and my father. All I can see is her.
Sasha shifts uncomfortably under my gaze. "Is something wrong?" she asks, breaking the silence.
I clear my throat. "No. You look…appropriate."
Her eyes flash with annoyance at my deliberate understatement. "Glad I meet your standards," she says dryly.
Ana clears her throat discreetly. "Will there be anything else, sir?"
I shake my head, not taking my eyes off Sasha. "That will be all, Ana. Thank you."
After Ana leaves, Sasha steps fully into the room, closing the door behind her. The soft click sounds unnaturally loud in the silence.
"So," she says, gesturing to herself, "is this what you had in mind when you said I needed to look the part?"
I allow myself a small smile. "It'll do."
She narrows her eyes, but there's no real heat in it. "You're impossible."
"I've been called worse," I reply, crossing to the bar to pour myself a drink. "Would you like one? Might help calm your nerves."
She raises an eyebrow. "What makes you think I'm nervous?"
I take a sip of whiskey, savoring the burn. "You've been fidgeting with your bracelet since you walked in."
Sasha glances down as if only just realizing what she's doing. She drops her hand to her side. "Maybe I'm just eager to get this over with."
"Understandable." I set down my glass and move toward her, deliberately. "But first, we need to get a few things straight."
She doesn't back away, which is both surprising and oddly satisfying. "Such as?"
"Tonight, you're my date. As far as anyone at that event is concerned, you're there willingly, eagerly even."
"So I'm supposed to act like I'm enjoying your company?" she asks skeptically.
I step closer until there's barely a foot between us. "Is that really so difficult to imagine?"
Her cheeks flush slightly, and I know she's thinking about the kiss, too. "I'm a terrible actress," she warns.
"Then don't act," I say, my voice lower now. "Just follow my lead and try not to look like you're planning my murder."
That earns me a reluctant smile. "I'll do my best."
I reach out, adjusting a strand of her hair that's fallen across her cheek. Her skin is warm beneath my fingers, and she goes very still at the contact.
"There's one more thing," I say, letting my hand drop. "No matter what happens tonight, stay by my side. Don't wander off, don't go anywhere alone, even to the bathroom."
Her smile fades. "You really think someone might try something there? At a charity event?"
"I think someone's already tried to kill you once," I remind her. "And they might not get a better opportunity than tonight."
Fear flickers in her eyes, quickly replaced by determination. "Then I guess I'm sticking to you like glue."
"Good," I say, stepping back to create some distance between us. The scent of her perfume—something floral and subtle—is making it hard to concentrate. "The car will be ready in ten minutes. Wait here."
I leave the room before she can respond, needing space to clear my head. The evening ahead requires complete focus—the senator, the legislation, the weapons shipment. I can't afford distractions, not even ones as captivating as Sasha Gillespie in that emerald dress.
In the hallway, I find Michael waiting, his scarred face solemn. At seventy, he's the oldest of my father's men but still one of the most dangerous. Unlike Gerald, though, Michael's loyalty has always seemed more nuanced—respectful of my father but not blindly obedient.
"A word, Marco?" he asks, his voice gravelly from decades of smoking.
I nod, leading him into a small study across the hall. "What is it?"
"Gerald's not happy about being relegated to the van," he says without preamble. "Says you're undermining his authority."
I scoff. "Gerald's authority extends exactly as far as I allow it to."
Michael's expression remains impassive. "Your father gave him explicit instructions to stay close to the girl tonight."
That confirms what I've suspected—my father is using Gerald to watch Sasha, to assess my attachment to her. "My father doesn't dictate who guards my date."
"No," Michael agrees, "but he does dictate who inherits this family. And right now, he's not pleased with your decisions."
I lean against the desk, studying the older man. "Are you warning me, Michael?"
A ghost of a smile crosses his face. "Let's call it…friendly advice. Gerald's been making calls, talking to Lucas. I thought you should know."
The implications are clear. Gerald, my father, and Lucas are coordinating, possibly plotting against me. The timing—just before this crucial weapons shipment—can't be a coincidence.
"I appreciate the heads up," I say carefully.
Michael nods, turning to leave, but pauses at the door. "She's beautiful, your Sasha. Worth protecting." His gaze, shrewd and assessing, meets mine. "But ask yourself this: is she worth dying for?"
The question hangs in the air long after he's gone.
I return to find Sasha standing by the window, her silhouette outlined against the fading daylight. She turns when I enter, and something in her expression—a mixture of vulnerability and resolve—makes my chest tighten.
"Ready?" I ask, offering my arm.
She nods, placing her hand lightly on my forearm. "As I'll ever be."
We walk downstairs in silence, the only sound the soft swish of her dress against the marble floors. Outside, the car waits, sleek and black, Tony standing at attention beside it.
"Everything's arranged," he says quietly as we approach. "For both events."
I nod, helping Sasha into the backseat before sliding in beside her. The privacy screen is already raised between the driver and us.
As the car pulls away from the house, Sasha turns to me. "I overheard Gerald earlier," she says abruptly. "He was talking to another man—older, with a scar on his face."
"Michael," I supply, curious where this is going.
"I was waiting for Ana to get my dress, and they were talking outside my door. They said your father wasn't happy with your decisions. That Lucas would never defy him the way you have." She studies my face, searching for something. "Are you in danger, Marco?"
The question catches me off guard. Not the content—I've known my position is precarious—but the genuine concern in her voice.
"I'm always in danger," I reply honestly. "It comes with the territory."
"But from your own family?"
I gaze out the window, watching the city lights blur past. "Especially from family."
She's quiet for a moment, absorbing this. "Is it because of me? Gerald seemed to think I was the reason your father's unhappy."
I turn to look at her, suddenly wanting her to understand. "My father believes in absolute control—control over the family, the business, every aspect of our lives. He sees any…personal attachment as weakness."
"Like me," she concludes softly.
"Like you," I confirm. "But my father doesn't dictate who I allow into my life."
Her eyes widen slightly at the echo of what I'd said to Gerald in the garden. She heard more than I realized.
"So tonight isn't just about the senator," she says. "It's about showing strength to your father, too."
"You're perceptive," I murmur, impressed despite myself. "Yes, tonight serves multiple purposes."
Sasha nods, looking thoughtful. "What does he want that you've been refusing to give him?"
I hesitate, weighing how much to share. But she's already in too deep—knowing more might actually protect her.
"Control," I say simply. "I've been making decisions independently, expanding our territory, moving into new ventures. My father prefers…traditional methods."
"By traditional, you mean illegal," she clarifies, but there's no judgment in her tone, just pragmatism.
I can't help the small smile that tugs at my lips. "Among other things."
She falls silent again, her gaze distant. Then, unexpectedly, she slides closer to me on the seat.
"If I'm playing the role of your willing date tonight," she says, her voice taking on a new determination, "then we should make it convincing."
Before I can respond, she takes my hand, lacing her fingers through mine. The gesture is simple but intimate—and completely unexpected.
"What are you doing?" I ask, genuinely confused by this sudden shift.
She meets my gaze steadily. "If your father thinks I'm a distraction, a weakness, then let's use that. Make him underestimate you."
I stare at her, momentarily at a loss for words. This woman—who was my reluctant prisoner just days ago—is now offering to help me outmaneuver my father.
"You don't have to do this," I say quietly.
"I know." She squeezes my hand slightly. "But I'm choosing to. One night, like we agreed. Might as well make it count, right?"
Something shifts between us in that moment—a recalibration, an unexpected alliance. She's still desperate to get back to her sister. But now, she's also my willing accomplice, at least for tonight.
"Right," I agree, returning the pressure of her hand.
As the car continues toward the event, I find myself reevaluating Sasha Gillespie. She's not just beautiful, not just fierce in protecting what she loves. She's shrewd, adaptable, and far more dangerous than I've given her credit for.
And if we both survive the night, I mighthave to reconsider letting her go when our two days are up.
My phone vibrates in my pocket—another message from the unknown number. One word:
"Tonight."
With Sasha's hand still in mine, I delete the message and focus on what lies ahead. First the senator, then the docks. One step at a time.
The car slows as we approach the venue, a historic mansion ablaze with lights. Security guards flank the entrance, and photographers line the red carpet, cameras ready.
"Showtime," I murmur.
Sasha takes a deep breath, straightening her shoulders. "Let's give them something to talk about."
As the car stops and the door opens, she transforms before my eyes—anxiety replaced by confidence, reluctance by elegance. She steps out first, then turns to offer me her hand, a dazzling smile on her face.
It's so convincing that for a moment, even I almost believe it's real.
I join her, slipping my arm around her waist possessively. The cameras flash, capturing the moment—Marco Walsh and his mysterious date, a united front.
If only they knew what waits for us when the night is through.