CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Sasha
A WEEK PASSES in strange silence. Marco has changed since Lucas's death—colder, more withdrawn, moving through the house like a ghost. The official story, carefully circulated among his men, is that Lucas was killed by a rival gang in retaliation for some past grievance. No one questions it openly, though I catch whispered conversations that fall silent when I approach.
They all know the truth or at least suspect it. Marco killed his brother. His own flesh and blood.
I should be horrified. I should be planning my escape, desperate to get as far away as possible from a man capable of such violence. Instead, I find myself watching him, studying the new weight he carries on his shoulders, the shadows that darken his eyes when he thinks no one is looking.
Every night, Marco drinks alone in his study, staring into the fire until the early hours of morning. Every night, I tell myself to leave him to his demons, to maintain some semblance of distance and sanity. Every night, I fail.
Tonight is no different. The clock reads 2:17 A.M. when I slip out of my room, padding barefoot down the silent hallway. Buddy follows for a few steps before deciding the comfort of his dog bed is more appealing than another late-night vigil. Smart dog.
Marco's study door is ajar; warm light is spilling into the corridor. I pause in the doorway, taking in the familiar scene: Marco in his leather armchair, tumbler of whiskey in hand, firelight playing across his face. He looks exhausted, the kind of bone-deep weariness that sleep can't cure.
"You should be in bed," he says without looking up, somehow aware of my presence despite my silent approach.
"So should you," I counter, entering the room and closing the door behind me.
He doesn't respond, taking another sip of whiskey instead. I cross to the sofa opposite his chair, tucking my legs beneath me as I settle into the worn leather. We've established a routine of sorts these past nights—me sitting quietly while he drinks, occasionally breaking the silence with neutral observations about the estate or the weather, never addressing the bloodstained elephant in the room.
Tonight feels different, though. The air between us is charged with something I can't quite name.
"You never asked me what happened," Marco says suddenly, his voice rough from disuse.
I meet his gaze steadily. "I didn't need to."
He turns the crystal tumbler in his hands, watching the amber liquid catch the firelight. "Most people would want details. Certainty."
"Would telling me change anything?" I ask quietly. "Would it bring Lucas back or ease your conscience?"
His lips twist in a humorless smile. "I don't have a conscience, Sasha. Not anymore."
"Liar," I say softly. "If that were true, you wouldn't be down here every night, drinking yourself numb."
Marco's eyes snap to mine, something dangerous flickering in their depths. For a moment, I wonder if I've pushed too far, crossed some invisible boundary. But he only sighs, the sound heavy with resignation.
"Lucas betrayed us," he says finally. "He sold out Danny, worked with our enemies, put the entire Walsh organization at risk."
"When I confronted him at the docks," Marco continues, his voice distant as if recounting someone else's memories, "he was planning another hit. I knew he was going to kill me.'"
"So you killed him first," I finish quietly.
Marco's expression darkens. "I gave him a chance, Sasha. I would have let him walk away if he'd just stopped. Left the country, disappeared. But he chose to fight." His knuckles go white around the empty glass. "He came at me with a knife."
My throat tightens at the pain evident in his voice. Before I can stop myself, I move to his side, kneeling beside his chair and taking the glass from his hand. I set it aside and replace it with my own hand, threading our fingers together.
"It was self-defense," I say gently.
Marco laughs bitterly. "Is that what you need to believe?"
"It's the truth, isn't it?"
He looks down at our joined hands, thumb brushing over my knuckles in an absent caress. "The truth is, I knew I was going to kill him the moment I saw the evidence against him. The knife was just…convenient. An excuse."
The frank admission should frighten me. Instead, I find myself squeezing his hand tighter. "He murdered Danny. He would have killed you, too."
"And that justifies it? Makes it right?" Marco's voice is harsh. "Lucas was my brother, Sasha. We grew up together. Fought together. Before all this, he was the one person I always trusted to have my back."
"People change," I say softly. "Sometimes the person we trust most becomes the one who hurts us the worst."
Marco's eyes search mine, looking for judgment or fear. Finding neither, he reaches out, brushing a strand of hair from my face with unexpected tenderness.
"You should hate me," he murmurs. "Be terrified of me. Instead, you're here, comforting a killer."
"Is that all you are?" I challenge. "Just a killer?"
Something vulnerable flashes across his face before he can mask it. "What else would you call me?"
I consider the question seriously, studying the man before me—the hardness in his jaw, the calluses on his hands, the shadows in his eyes that speak of burdens I can't fully comprehend.
"Complicated," I say finally. "Dangerous, yes. Capable of terrible violence, certainly. But also protective. Loyal to those who deserve it. And underneath it all, more haunted by your actions than you want anyone to know."
Marco stares at me for a long moment, something like wonder in his expression. "You see too much, Sasha Gillespie."
"Or maybe just enough," I counter, rising to my feet. I tug gently at his hand. "Come on. You need sleep, not more whiskey."
To my surprise, he follows without resistance, allowing me to lead him from the study and up the stairs to his bedroom. I expect him to dismiss me at the door, to retreat into his solitude as he has every other night. Instead, he keeps hold of my hand, drawing me into the room with him.
"Stay," he says, the word somewhere between a command and a plea.
I hesitate, knowing we're at a crossroads. If I stay tonight, after everything he's confessed, everything I know, there's no going back. No more pretending this is just temporary, just a means to an end.
"Marco..."
"Just to sleep," he clarifies, misinterpreting my hesitation. "I just…don't want to be alone with the ghosts tonight."
The vulnerability in his admission decides for me. I nod, letting him pull me toward the bed. We lie down fully clothed, Marco on his back staring at the ceiling, me curled on my side facing him. Tentatively, I rest my hand on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath my palm.
"Sleep," I whisper.
He covers my hand with his own, his eyes already drifting closed. Within minutes, his breathing evens out, exhaustion finally claiming him. I watch him sleep, marveling at how young he looks with the hard lines of his face relaxed in slumber. Without the mask of the ruthless crime boss, I can see traces of the boy he must have been before this life claimed him.
I don't remember falling asleep, but morning finds us still together, my head on his shoulder, his arm wrapped protectively around me. For a moment, I allow myself to pretend this is normal—that we're just a man and woman waking up together, without blood and violence and criminal empires complicating everything.
Marco stirs, his eyes opening to find mine. For once, there's no guard in his expression, no calculated mask. Just Marco, looking at me with something that makes my heart beat faster.
"Morning," he murmurs, voice rough with sleep.
"Morning," I reply, suddenly aware of our proximity, the intimacy of sharing his bed even fully clothed.
He reaches up, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, his touch lingering. "Thank you," he says simply. "For staying."
I should move away, put distance between us, remind myself of all the reasons this—whatever this is—can never work. Instead, I find myself leaning into his touch.
"You're welcome," I whisper.
The moment stretches. Then, Marco's phone buzzes on the nightstand, breaking the spell. He sighs, reaching for it with obvious reluctance.
"Walsh," he answers, his voice instantly shifting back to the clipped, authoritative tone I've come to recognize as his business persona. I watch the transformation with fascination—the softness in his eyes hardening, jaw setting, shoulders squaring. Marco the man, receding behind Marco the mob boss within seconds.
I slip out of bed while he's distracted, heading back to my own room to shower and change. Whatever vulnerability he showed last night has clearly passed with the dawn. Better to give him space than to witness the awkward withdrawal I'm sure will follow.
Under the hot spray of the shower, I try to make sense of my conflicted feelings. I'm still technically a captive here, still separated from Lily, who I have only gotten to call.Hearing her soft voice the other day nearly undid me, but she’s safe, and father is getting better. I keep hoping today will be the day we are reunited. But that won’t happen without Marco’s say so. Marco has become something more than my captor—confidant, protector, perhaps even friend. And the attraction between us, undeniable from the beginning, has evolved into something deeper, more complicated.
I'm falling for a killer. A criminal. A man whose life is so fundamentally incompatible with everything I've ever wanted that it would be laughable if it weren't so tragic.
Yet, I can't bring myself to pull away. Not completely. Not yet.
After dressing in jeans and a simple sweater, I head downstairs, finding the house unusually quiet. Most of Marco's men must be out on business, leaving only the essential security personnel behind. I wander into the kitchen, preparing a simple breakfast of toast and coffee, my mind still circling around the implications of last night's conversation and this morning's intimacy.
My phone rings as I'm washing my mug. Aunt Karen's name flashes on the screen, sending a jolt of joy through me.
"Karen, hi," I answer quickly. "How's Lily?”
The silence on the other end stretches a beat too long. "Everything's fine," Karen says finally, her voice strange, pitched slightly higher than normal. "Just fine."
Something in her tone raises the hairs on the back of my neck. "Karen? What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong," she insists too quickly. "Lily's at school. I just…wanted to check when you might be coming to get her. It's been almost two weeks now."
The guilt intensifies; once again, I don’t have an answer for her. "I know, I'm sorry. There have been…complications." I hesitate, not sure how much to reveal. "Has anything unusual happened? Anyone been hanging around the house or asking questions about us?"
Another too-long pause. "Why would you ask that?"
"Karen," I say firmly, "tell me what's going on. Now."
Her composure breaks. "There have been men watching the house," she admits, voice dropping to a whisper as if afraid of being overheard. "For days now. Black SUV parked down the street. Sometimes, they just sit there. Sometimes they walk past, looking in the windows."
My blood runs cold. "Have they approached you? Talked to Lily?"
"No, not directly. But yesterday, when I took Lily to the park..." Her voice falters. "One of them followed us. Kept his distance, but I knew he was watching. I'm scared, Sasha."
I grip the counter, mind racing. "Listen to me carefully, Karen. Pack a bag for Lily. Just essentials. I'm sending someone to get you both right now."
"What? Who? What's happening, Sasha?" Panic edges into her voice.
"I'll explain everything later, I promise. But right now, I need you to trust me. The men I'm sending—they'll keep you safe."
"Are you in some kind of trouble? Is this about George's gambling debts?"
I almost laugh at the simplicity of her assumption. If only it were something as straightforward as my father's gambling.
"It's complicated," I say instead. "But I swear, I'll explain everything once you're safe. Please, Karen. For Lily's sake."
She agrees reluctantly, and I hang up, heart pounding. I need to find Marco immediately. If Lucas's allies are watching Karen's house, it's only a matter of time before they make a move against Lily.
I find him in his office, bent over paperwork, phone pressed to his ear. He looks up when I enter, expression shifting from irritation at the interruption to concern when he sees my face.
"I'll call you back," he says into the phone, ending the call without waiting for a response. "What's happened?"
"Men watching my aunt's house," I say without preamble. "Following her and Lily. For days, apparently."
Marco is on his feet instantly, reaching for his jacket. "You spoke to her just now?"
I nod, relief flooding through me at his immediate response. "She's terrified. I told her we'd send someone to bring them here."
"Tony," Marco barks, pressing a button on his desk that summons his right-hand man within seconds. "Take Mike and four others. Karen Gillespie's house, now. Bring her and the girl back here. Full protection detail."
Tony nods, already reaching for his phone to coordinate. "ETA twenty minutes."
"Make it fifteen," Marco orders. "And Tony? If anyone tries to interfere, show no mercy."
The cold precision in his voice sends a shiver down my spine, a stark reminder of who he really is beneath the moments of tenderness I've glimpsed. This is the Marco Walsh the criminal underworld fears—efficient, ruthless, deadly.
Tony leaves to carry out his orders, and Marco turns back to me, his expression softening slightly. "They'll be safe here," he assures me. "I promise."
"This is my fault," I say, the realization hitting me with crushing force. "I've been so caught up in…everything here, I didn't think about the danger to them. I should have brought Lily here days ago."
Marco takes my hands, steadying me. "This isn't your fault, Sasha. It's mine. I should have anticipated this move." His jaw tightens. "Lucas's allies, trying to find leverage now that he's gone."
"What do they want? Why target a nine-year-old girl?"
"Control. Power. The same things men always want in our world." His grip on my hands tightens. "But they've miscalculated. Badly."
The cold fury in his voice should frighten me. Instead, I find it reassuring. Marco Walsh's enemies have threatened what he considers his to protect. Whatever happens next, I almost pity them.
"Thank you," I say quietly. "For helping them."
He looks surprised. "Did you think I wouldn't?"
"No, I..." I hesitate, trying to articulate the shift that's happening inside me. "I'm starting to understand that there's more to you than I first thought. That maybe…maybe you're not the villain in this story."
A ghost of a smile touches his lips. "Don't mistake me for a hero, Sasha. I'm still the monster your father warned you about."
"Maybe," I concede. "But you're my monster now."
The words slip out before I can consider their implications, hanging in the air between us. Marco's expression changes, something fierce and possessive flaring in his eyes. He pulls me closer, one hand sliding into my hair as he tilts my face up to his.
"Say that again," he commands softly.
Heart racing, I meet his gaze unflinchingly. The words lodged in my throat, but he doesn’t wait for me to say it again. Instead, he kisses me, deep and claiming, his arms wrapping around me like he never intends to let go. I surrender to it completely, no longer fighting the inevitability of us.
When we finally part, both breathing hard, Marco rests his forehead against mine. "I'll burn this city to the ground before I let anyone hurt you or Lily," he promises, the words a solemn vow.
"I know," I whisper, and the strangest thing is that I do know. I believe him absolutely.
For all his darkness, all his capacity for violence, Marco Walsh would tear the world apart to protect what's his. And somehow, against all odds and better judgment, I've become exactly that.
His.
The realization should terrify me. Instead, as his arms tighten around me and I breathe in the scent that's uniquely him, I feel something I haven't felt since I first stepped off that bus into this nightmare.
Safe.