6. Marco
MARCO
T he realization hits Marco like a bullet to the chest.
He's dangerously, obsessively, irrevocably in love with this omega.
That was not supposed to happen. Dante was supposed to be leverage, a way to cement the alliance with the weakened Rossi family, a beautiful possession to display and use and eventually discard if he became inconvenient.
But three days of heat have erased every boundary Marco carefully constructed, every defense he thought was impenetrable, every promise he made to himself about staying emotionally distant.
Dante is not supposed to matter.
But he does.
God help him, Dante is the most important thing in Marco's world, and that is a vulnerability Marco cannot afford.
The solution is simple: reassert control. Make sure Dante knows exactly who holds the power in this relationship. Put the omega back in his place so Marco can remember why this arrangement was supposed to be about possession and ownership, not about love.
So when Dante wakes the next morning, soft and pliant and clearly expecting tenderness, Marco is deliberately cold.
"You need to clean yourself up," Marco says, his voice sharp with the edge he's cultivating. "Then you'll present yourself to my inner circle. They're waiting."
Dante's expression shifts—hurt flashing across his features before he pulls it back. "Marco, I thought?—"
"You don't think," Marco cuts him off. "That's not your function. Your function is to obey, to present yourself as my possession, to show my family that you belong to me. Not because you're special. Because you're mine."
He watches the words land like physical blows, watches Dante's carefully constructed composure crack slightly. Good . Pain keeps omegas obedient. Distance keeps them from becoming essential. Distance keeps Marco's empire intact.
But it's a lie, and Marco knows it. Dante is already essential. Dante has already infiltrated every part of Marco's being. The paranormal bond won't allow anything else.
Dante obeys without argument, dressing in the clothes Marco specifies, presenting himself with perfect compliance.
But his scent has shifted—there's a note of hurt underneath the honey and smoke, a desperate edge that makes Marco's alpha side want to comfort him, to reassure him, to pull him close and promise never to hurt him again.
Instead, Marco keeps his distance.
At the family meeting, he deliberately doesn't touch Dante, deliberately maintains professional distance, deliberately uses the omega's presence as a statement about power and control rather than about possession and love.
Dante stands beside him silently, perfectly obedient, perfectly beautiful, and perfectly heartbroken.
It should be easier. It should reinforce Marco's control.
Instead, it feels like torture.
That night, Dante doesn't come to Marco's bedroom. He stays in the master bedroom, probably crying, probably processing the distance Marco is deliberately creating.
Marco lies alone in his bed, acutely aware of the pull of the fated bond, the desperate ache to go to his omega, the knowledge that Dante is suffering because Marco is trying to maintain walls that have already been completely demolished.
Around midnight, Marco hears it: Dante's voice, muffled but desperate, calling his name.
Marco moves before his rational mind can stop him. He's in the master bedroom in seconds, finding Dante in a state of distress—the fated bond pulling at him, demanding alpha reassurance, demanding the closeness that Marco deliberately denied.
Tears are streaming down Dante's beautiful face, and his scent is a chaos of pain and desperation.
"I'm sorry," Dante whispers. "I'm sorry for whatever I did wrong. Please, Marco, I can't... the bond is pulling and you're not here and I feel like I'm breaking?—"
Marco can't take it anymore.
Marco walks slowly to the edge of the bed. He doesn't command Dante to kneel. Instead, the ruthless Don drops to his own knees on the floor, positioning himself between Dante’s dangling legs.
Dante gasps, his swollen, bruised lips parting as he watches the most feared man in Crime City lower his head in complete submission to his crotch.
"Marco... what are you doing?" Dante whispers, his voice raw from days of screaming.
"Fixing what I did," Marco rumbles, his voice low and thick with uncharacteristic gentleness.
He reaches up, his large, scarred hands gently parting Dante’s thighs. He leans forward, burying his face in the apex of Dante's legs. Marco's mouth opens, his warm breath fanning over Dante's twitching, semi-hard cock.
Slowly, deliberately, Marco wraps his lips around the soft head of Dante’s length. He slides his tongue along the sensitive underside, lapping up the sweet pre-cum with long, slow, worshipful strokes.
Dante lets out a high, fractured sob, his hands flying to Marco’s thick hair. He’s serving me. The Don is serving me.
Marco sucks him deeper, taking the shaft into his warm, wet throat. He keeps the pace agonizingly slow, swirling his tongue around the head, generating a heavy, friction-filled suction that makes Dante’s hips arch off the mattress helplessly.
There is no violence in the movement, only a deep, reverent penance. Marco uses his hands to stroke Dante's inner thighs, soothing the dark bruises left from the brutal heat cycles.
"Marco... please, it’s too much," Dante cries out, his toes curling into the silk sheets as his omega core begins to pulse and weep a fresh, thick stream of transparent slick.
Marco pulls back with a wet, heavy swallow, a thin line of saliva connecting his mouth to Dante’s glistening cock.
He looks up, his dark eyes fiercely possessive but entirely devoid of the cold malice from earlier.
He reaches blindly for the bottle of silicone lubricant, coating his thick fingers in the slick liquid.
While Dante is still dazed from the oral praise, Marco presses two fingers firmly against the omega’s tight, swollen entrance. He slips them inside with a smooth, slow thrust, stretching the tight walls that are still sore from the weekend's knotting.
Dante whines, a wet sound of pure submission, his body instantly recognizing the familiar stretch. Marco moves his fingers in long, deep strokes, deliberately hitting the sensitive prostate over and over again, coaxing a frantic rhythm out of Dante's hips.
"You are my world, Dante," Marco growls softly, increasing the speed of his fingers as the lubricant squelches loudly between them. "I’m sorry. You are my fated mate, not my slave."
Dante’s breath hitches, the emotional relief hitting him harder than the physical pleasure.
His scent blooms, turning back into a rich, suffocating wave of sweet honey and heavy smoke.
The internal clenching multiplies, his tight core squeezing Marco’s fingers with desperate intensity.
Marco adds a third finger, opening Dante up wide, driving him ruthlessly toward the edge.
"Come for me, amore ," Marco commands, his voice a gravelly caress. "Paint me."
Dante fractures. He lets out a loud, unhinged scream as his climax rips through his body. His cock spasms, jetting a thick, hot stream of white come straight across Marco’s broad, tattooed chest. It spatters against the heavy dark ink, a warm, stark mark of his complete surrender.
Dante's core clamps down violently on Marco's fingers, milking them as his body shivers into a long, trembling aftershock.
"I love you," Marco says, and it's the first time he's ever said those words to another person. "God help me, I love you."
And Dante, trembling in his arms, whispers back: "I love you too."
Marco doesn't pull away. He leans up, wiping the tears from Dante’s cheeks with his thumbs, before burying his face in the omega's neck to scent-mark him with a deep, rumbling purr.