2. Marco
MARCO
M arco locks the door and takes a moment to simply breathe, to process the reality of what he now possesses. His husband. His omega. His property, claimed in front of every major family in Crime City.
Dante Rossi is even more beautiful in person than the reports suggested. The photos didn't capture the way his dark eyes carry intelligence beneath the surface beauty, or the way his scent—honey and smoke and something darker underneath—makes Marco's alpha side howl with possessive hunger.
The white silk suit clings to his slender frame, emphasizing the delicate curve of his waist, the slight swell of his hip. The pristine fabric is already ruined at the thighs, stained dark by the frantic, thick stream of transparent omega slick leaking through his underwear.
Perfect. Absolutely fucking perfect.
The scent in the room is a volatile cocktail—the sweet, rich aroma of honey and smoke turning razor sharp with a cornered prey's terror, mixing violently with Marco’s massive, suffocating alpha musk of heavy tobacco and black pepper.
"First rule," Marco says, his voice deliberately low, deliberately controlled.
"You will call me Marco when we're alone.
Sir when we're in public or around family.
You will follow every instruction I give without question or hesitation.
You will not speak unless spoken to. You will not leave this penthouse without my explicit permission.
You will present yourself to me every morning and evening so I can assess your compliance. "
He watches Dante's eyes widen, watches the omega's scent shift into something laced with fear and unwilling arousal. Good. Fear keeps omegas obedient . But he needs the arousal too—needs Dante to want what's coming, even if his conscious mind resists.
"Do you understand?"
Dante nods once, his jaw locked in a desperate attempt to maintain his pride.
"I need words, amore . Confirm that you understand your new position in my life."
"I understand," Dante whispers, his voice trembling as he pulls Marco’s dominant pheromones deep into his lungs. "I understand... Marco."
Perfect . Already using his name, already showing deference in the way he says it.
Marco reaches out and cups Dante's chin, tilting his face upward.
The moment their skin makes contact, Marco feels it—that bonded pull that marks a fated mate pairing.
His alpha side recognizes this omega as essential, as meant for him, as the one thing capable of making him complete.
The fated bond recognition is immediate and overwhelming. Marco's pupils dilate, his body responding with instantaneous hardness. He can smell the shift in Dante's pheromones—fear and arousal mixing together into something intoxicating.
"You're going to be exactly what I need," Marco says, and his voice has dropped into something darker, something more intimate. He traces Dante's lower lip with his thumb, marking him with his touch. "You're beautiful. You're intelligent. You're going to learn to surrender to me completely."
Dante trembles beneath his touch, and Marco feels the vampire-like hunger that comes with alpha possession.
He wants to claim this omega immediately, wants to mark him at a level that goes beyond the physical, wants to make absolutely certain that every living thing in Crime City understands that Dante belongs to him and only him.
"I have something for you," Marco says, stepping back reluctantly.
He retrieves a collar from his desk drawer—black leather, custom-fitted, embedded with a small sapphire that catches the light.
It's not a shock collar, not a tracker, just pure possession made tangible.
Different from the one Dante wore for the show at their wedding.
This is a symbol of Marco's claim.
Dante's eyes widen when he sees it.
"This is your collar," Marco explains, his voice brooking no argument. "You will wear it always. It serves as a reminder of who you belong to. It tells everyone who sees you that you are claimed, that you are mine, that any attempt to approach you without my permission will result in their death."
"I..." Dante's voice trails off, but Marco watches the omega's hand reach out instinctively toward the collar, drawn by the paranormal pull of the fated bond.
"Come here," Marco commands, and Dante obeys without question, moving closer. Marco fastens the collar around Dante's neck with careful precision, making sure it sits properly.
It's snug but not restrictive—Dante can still breathe, can still swallow, but he'll feel it constantly, will be reminded with every movement that he belongs to Marco.
When Marco steps back, Dante's hand immediately goes to the collar, fingers tracing the leather, the sapphire. There's something in his expression—a mix of terror and unwilling acceptance that makes Marco's cock harden further.
"The suit needs to come off," Marco says, settling into the leather chair by the window.
He's not going to take Dante tonight—not yet.
The omega is too new, too scared, and Marco built his empire on control, on discipline, on never losing his composure, regardless of how desperately he wants something.
And he wants Dante desperate, weeping, and completely undone before he destroys him.
Dante's eyes widen. "What?"
"You heard me. The suit comes off."
"Here? Now?"
"Here. Now. You're my husband. I will see your body whenever I choose. You will remove your clothes when I command it. You will stand before me without shame or resistance. This is not a request, Dante. This is expectation."
For a moment, Dante doesn't move. Marco can see the internal conflict playing out across his features—the part of him that wants to resist, that wants to fight back against this impossible situation. Marco almost hopes he does fight. The punishment will be exquisite.
But Dante is smarter than that. Slowly, with trembling fingers, Dante unbuttons the white silk jacket, letting it slide off his shoulders to pool on the concrete floor. He reaches for the waistband of his white silk trousers, unzipping them with a sharp metallic hiss.
He pushes the fabric down his legs, stepping out of the silk until he stands completely bare in nothing but the blood-red collar and a pair of silk underwear that are completely soaked through with thick, transparent omega slick.
"Beautiful," Marco breathes, and he stands, moving closer.
He reaches out and traces one finger down Dante's sternum, watching goosebumps rise in the wake of his touch.
"You have beautiful skin. I'm going to enjoy marking it.
I'm going to enjoy making sure every scar I leave on your body is a reminder that you belong to me. "
Dante's breath is coming faster now, and his scent is definitely shifting toward arousal despite the fear. Marco can smell it—the subtle sweetness that shows his omega is becoming desperate, becoming willing.
"Not tonight," Marco says, and he steps back.
"Tonight you sleep in the master bedroom.
I will sleep in the adjacent room . Tomorrow, you will present yourself to my inner circle, and they will assess your value.
Show them intelligence. Show them obedience.
Show them that you're worth keeping. Disappoint me, and I will make sure you regret it. "
He watches as Dante processes the dismissal, watches the omega's expression shift from disappointment to relief to something more complicated.
"Go to bed, amore ," Marco says. "And Dante? That collar stays on. Always."