Chapter Ten #4
I’m almost to the bottom of the stairs when I hear voices. At first, I think it’s Marcello’s family in the dining room having breakfast, but quickly realize the voices are coming from the direction of Marcello’s study.
One voice is Marcello’s, low and cold in a way I haven’t heard in a while.
The other voice is male, but I don’t recognize it.
It’s not Carlo or Dante. With my hand on the banister, my stomach tenses as I recognize something in the man’s voice.
Fear. The person is pleading with Marcello. The man’s voice is high and desperate.
I’m well aware I should continue on to the dining room. Whatever this is, it isn’t my business. But the desperation in that voice pulls at me. The study door is open a few inches, and before I’ve decided to do it I’m moving quietly down the corridor toward Marcello’s study.
I stop just outside. Through the gap I can see into the room.
There’s a man on his knees on the floor in front of Marcello’s desk.
He’s older, maybe fifty, thin, with gray threading his hair.
A wooden cane lies on the floor beside him where it’s fallen or been knocked.
He’s gripping the edge of the desk with both hands like it’s the only thing keeping him upright, and he’s weeping, openly, his shoulders heaving.
Marcello stands over him. He’s in a charcoal suit, freshly shaved, his hands in his pockets, and his face is carved from stone. Carlo leans against the bookshelves behind him with his arms crossed and his expression carefully blank.
“Please,” the man on the floor is saying. “Please, Don Foschini, have mercy. I’m begging you. I’ll pay back every cent. On my children. On my mother’s grave. I’ll pay it all back, I swear it, just give me time—”
“You disgust me.” Marcello’s voice is quiet. He’s obviously angry, but he isn’t shouting. He’s calm, and the calm is so much scarier than rage.
“I know and I deserve your disgust, sir.” The man wipes at his wet face. “I can make it right.”
“You understand what that fund is for.”
“I do, I do, I know what it’s for—”
“Then why did you do it? If you needed money, you could have come to me. Not stolen money like you think I wouldn’t have helped you. That’s insulting to me.”
The man’s face crumples. “I was desperate and didn’t know how to ask for help. I know it was wrong. Please, forgive me, Don Foschini.”
Marcello curls his lip and he lifts his foot, shoving it against the man’s shoulder. The man falls sideways, sobbing into the Venetian wool rug. I’m horrified that Marcello is bullying a man who by all accounts is a cripple.
“I gave you that position because I trusted you, Beppe.” Marcello’s voice never rises but the malevolence has somehow increased.
A chill goes down my spine as I listen to the complete lack of mercy.
“When your leg was crippled you thought you were finished. But I made a place for you. I gave you work you could do with a bad leg. I gave you back your dignity. And this is how you repay me? By stealing from me.”
“Please,” the man cries, reaching for the hem of Marcello’s pant leg, but Marcello steps back so the grasping hand catches nothing but air. “Please, I have children, what will happen to my children—”
“Why would your children matter?” Marcello sneers.
I’m horrified by Marcello’s cruelty. I should say something, but I’m frozen in place.
I can’t believe this is the same man who tenderly held me in his arms last night.
The same man who was almost in tears from guilt over his brother’s death.
That man was warm and vulnerable. This man is cruel and horrible as he torments a broken, disabled, begging man.
As the man continues to plead for his life, Marcello stands over him with a face like a statue, giving him nothing. Not a flicker of empathy. Not a breath of pity. Marcello is looking down at the sniveling man like he’s something he scraped off his shoe.
Carlo’s eyes lift suddenly and find me through the tiny gap in the door.
He doesn’t say anything. He just holds my gaze for a second, and something flickers across his face. He pushes off the bookshelf and crosses the room, pushing the study door shut in my face. The latch clicks. Behind the heavy door, the voices drop to a muffle I can’t make out anymore.
I stand in the corridor with my heart pounding and my mouth dry. I don’t go to breakfast. I don’t think I could eat. Instead, I text Dante and tell him I want to go visit my brother at the hospital ASAP. He responds immediately and I go outside to the car.
As we drive away from the estate, I’m struggling with what I feel for Marcello. That cruel version I just witnessed is as real as the gentle version I spent the night with. It’s important I remember that.
Last night had me feeling things for Marcello I never expected to feel. But the last thing in the world I need to do is fall in love with an alpha like Marcello. Just because he’s capable of kindness doesn’t mean he’s not still a cold-hearted monster.
After all, mob bosses aren’t chosen for their sweet nature.