Chapter Four SANTINO #3
His voice had changed. No humor. No sarcasm.
No annoyance. Just seriousness. Complete seriousness.
Silence filled the room. The camera screens flickered quietly against the walls.
Bass rolled beneath my feet. Somewhere downstairs people were laughing.
Drinking. Dancing. Completely unaware that my entire fucking night had just detonated.
"And we just got peace," Marco continued quietly. "Barely. You and Leo spent years circling each other like loaded guns with safety switches."
His eyes locked onto mine. "One wrong move will kill you."
I looked at him. One wrong move. Funny. Because something deep in my chest whispered that I'd already made one. The second I kissed her.
I looked at Marco for a long second. Then scoffed.
"Jesus Christ," I muttered, grabbing my whiskey again. "Stop being such a drama queen."
Marco stared at me. Not the irritated stare. Not the you're being an asshole stare. This one looked deeply personal. Like I'd reached across the room and insulted his mere existence.
Very slowly, he pointed at himself. "I'm the drama queen?"
"Yes." I leaned back in the leather chair and took another drink while the burn of whiskey slid down my throat and settled warm in my chest. "You just gave me an entire speech like we're standing in the rain on a battlefield somewhere while violins play in the background."
"I gave you a warning,” Marco hissed.
"You gave me a monologue." I waved my hand dismissively. “Worthy of Shakespeare, but not necessary.”
He looked genuinely offended now. Good. Because irritated Marco was normal Marco.
Irritated Marco rolled his eyes and complained and called me stupid.
Worried Marco was different. Worried Marco looked at me like he was waiting for disaster.
And I was getting really tired of being looked at like an impending earthquake.
The surveillance room slowly settled back into something familiar after that.
Not quiet. Never quiet. Just familiar. Walls of camera feeds flickered around us, washing blue-white light over black leather furniture and polished steel surfaces.
Downstairs, the club kept moving beneath us.
Bass rolled softly through the floor in slow pulses while shifting camera angles showed bodies moving through gold and shadows like some living machine constantly breathing beneath our feet.
The city never stopped. Neither did this place. People disappeared into dark corners thinking they were making life-changing decisions. I almost laughed at that.
Marco sat back down and finally switched screens. "Docks."
I looked over. Shipping manifests replaced camera footage. Numbers. Routes. Schedules. Container movements. Business. Good.
Business I understood. Business made sense. Problems you could solve with intimidation or bullets. Simple.
"The east side redevelopment's moving faster than expected," Marco said while scrolling through reports. "Your father wants tighter control over distribution before construction finishes."
Irritation crawled up my spine. Of course he did. Father dearest always wanted more. More territory leverage, power, control. The man collected influence the way normal people collected watches. Never enough. Never satisfied.
I stared at the screen and felt absolutely nothing. No loyalty. No pride. No excitement. Because Edoardo Moretti had never really felt like a father. He felt like a businessman I happened to share blood with.
Angelo got the attention. Angelo got the approval. Angelo got invited into meetings. Angelo got the lessons. Angelo got the expectations. I got whatever happened to be left over afterward.
I stared at the numbers moving across the screen. "What does he want now?"
Marco glanced toward me carefully.
"Meetings." I laughed softly. Of course. Fucking shocking. "He wants you involved."
"Nah, not interested."
Marco sighed. Again. I looked over slowly. "You really need a new hobby."
"My hobby is preventing you from creating disasters,” he reminded me.
"That sounds deeply depressing." I scoffed. “Your life bores me.”
Hours slipped by after that. The kinds of conversations that normally occupied every inch of my brain took over, like they always did. Tonight they felt distant. Because every few minutes my mind betrayed me with memories of my forbidden fruit. Jesus Christ.
Eventually I stood and stretched my arms over my head. Leather creaked behind me. "We're done."
Marco frowned. "We still have tomorrow's schedule."
I was already walking toward the door. Marco reached for the tablet beside him. I narrowed my eyes. He narrowed his back. Then he looked down at the screen. “So back to regular business?”
I stopped. Looked over my shoulder. Then grinned. Because for the first time all night, an absolutely terrible idea had just wandered into my head and sat down comfortably.
Marco’s entire face changed. "Oh no. Absolutely fucking not."
“What? I have a wedding to get ready for.” I smiled wider.
And Marco looked like a man realizing the building around him had quietly caught fire while he wasn’t looking.