CHAPTER 3
MARCELLO
Twice.
She’d bumped into me twice. This bundle of chaos—once with coffee, once with her head, like a bull charging. Neither moment felt coincidental. My mind, annoyingly alert, started cataloguing her every motion.
Born in Palermo, raised in blood and silence, I learned early that even chaos follows a pattern. And she was starting to look like mine—something I neither expected nor wanted.
At the airport, she was chaos in motion—half-running through the terminal, bag swinging. Her voice was rushed, apologetic, almost mechanical. I didn’t flinch. I rarely do.
But I noticed her. Not because she spilled coffee. Because she didn’t look away. My chest clenched, breath catching for a moment—I wasn’t used to that. But today, she was different.
I was in Milan for business. Not distraction.
Officially, I was a patron of the arts—a major investor in the brands showcasing their collections.
Unofficially, Milan was my annual laundering ground.
Art crates masked weapons. Limited-edition furniture carried coded transactions.
Elegance layered over violence. Just the way I liked it
She passed me earlier, ducking behind a light sculpture when her friend shrieked. I pretended not to notice. But my chest tensed, pulse spiking. That was unlike me, and it annoyed me.
But I was drawn back to the airport when her scent hit me like a truck—a deep sensual blend of citrus with a touch of vanilla and spice. Like memory and a seductive temptation that felt entirely dangerous—and I knew I should look away.
I hadn’t smelled anything like it since Elaine. Not the same—but close enough to stir something I didn’t want to acknowledge.
I sat in the armchair, fingers grazing the fabric, pretending to test its comfort. The sales rep beside me kept talking, but her voice blurred. All I could hear was the echo of her scent.
I watched her from across the hall—her confident stride, the way she touched the pendant light like it held a secret. The way she moved through the fair as if she owned it. She didn’t just see design. She saw intention. A precision I could never own, no matter the wealth or power.
Then came the jolt. Her forehead slammed into my back. Reflexively, my muscles tensed, a spark of irritation tangled with intrigue.
“Che diavolo…” I muttered, turning sharply.
My eyes narrowed on her. She looked up with flushed cheeks and parted lips, but this time, she didn’t babble. Just stared in silence.
“You again,” I said, voice low with amusement.
A jolt shot through my chest, unbidden, like recognition before reason. Her louse dipped just enough to tease. My eyes lingered a beat too long. I felt the unwelcomed twitch in my pants.
God, I hated how alive she made me feel.
How could someone like her have that effect on me?
“Mr. Marcello, sorry—the invoice took a little longer than expected,” the sales rep said, handing me an envelope.
I took it without looking. Her friend tugged her arm.
“Let’s go, Roxy,” she said, giggling.
Roxy.
Playful, but light. It struck a chord—a pang I didn’t want to admit.
She mouthed, ‘I’m sorry.’ Barely audible.
I didn’t respond, just watched her berry-stained lips move. Then the gentle sway of her hips. Her stride. Her scent trailing behind her like a challenge.
I stood there unmoved, but something was stirring. And I didn’t name it. She made me feel something I didn’t recognise. And I didn’t want to.
The sales rep switched to French, confirming my selections would arrive in a month. I nodded, eyes scanning the crowd for her, but he was gone.
“Merci,” I said, finally turning to the rep with a polite smile.
I could see she was trying to flirt with me. I was used to the attention, but today, I wasn’t interested.
The next day, Martin followed me into a meeting with Lorenzo.
I hated that bastard. Older than me, but never worthy of respect.
We started as partners, until greed took him.
Drugs. Women. Flesh traded across Europe and the Middle East. I don’t touch that filth.
You have to be rotting inside to sell human lives.
“Marcello, figghiu miu, it’s been too long. I’m surprised you agreed to meet me.” His eyes flicked around. “Public places make you nervous now?”
“Get to the point, Lorenzo. I don’t have all day.”
“You insult me. Somewhere important to be?” He smiled thinly. “Sempre di fretta, eh?”
(Always in a hurry, eh?)
His voice dripped with cunning. I rubbed the bridge of my nose and sat across from him. I didn’t want a gunfight. Not here. Not now. Not with so many innocent lives around.
“You wouldn’t come here to banter, Lorenzo. Don’t mock me.” I replied in a stern yet calm manner.
“I want to move through your port—Porto Nerra.” He leaned in. “Ti pago il doppio.”
(I’ll pay you double)
“No. You know I don’t want your filthy money.”
“Business is business. You deal in arms and art—one to dominate, one to distract.”
“Art is the only thing that makes violence tolerable,” I said, flat.
“Ahh.” His smile sharpened.
“Sei diventato molle, Marcello.” He taunted.
(You’ve grown soft.)
“Still haunted by Elaine’s ghost? Give me what I want, and I’ll disappear.”
“If I give you what you want, you’ll come for what I have, you greedy bastard.”
My fist slammed against the table. Lorenzo didn’t flinch. Just puffed his pipe.
“Don’t make a scene, Marcello. What will happen to your perfect little image then? I’ll get what I want. One way or another.”
He stood and walked out, leaving the stench of smoke behind. He always knew how to press the wrong buttons.
I remember the day like it was yesterday. Elaine—on her way to her show in Florence. She was one of the finest sculptors I’d ever known. Her car collided head-on with a transport truck, the same truck she used to move her pieces. It wasn’t an accident. It was Lorenzo’s message for walking away.
I had barged into his house then. Took a knife from his bedside and sliced him—mouth to ear. Unfortunately, he lived, but the scar stayed. His mistress had screamed and fainted.
He took away the only thing that made me human—my wife. We had called a truce. No crossing lines. But Lorenzo always found ways to crawl under mine. He was lucky I didn’t empty a clip into his hairy little Italian ass today or the other day.
I downed my whiskey and threw the glass across the room. The glass shattered, but the rage stayed. I needed air. Whiskey alone wasn’t enough. I paced the room, grumbling, fists clenched. If I didn’t leave, I’d kill someone. Anyone.
I walked back to the far end of the fair.
The noise of the fair helped mute my thoughts.
The long walk settled my pulse. I headed towards one of the booths I’d invested in—clean, minimal, curated.
They served me a drink the moment I arrived.
I stretched my legs, tried to relax, and pulled out my phone, sending out messages.
Martin was with me. Santino handled ground operations. My two most trusted men. No one else came close.
Then I smelled it—that familiar, intentional blend of citrus, vanilla, and spice. I looked up slowly to find her already seated across from me. She tapped the table with manicured fingers, trying to get my attention. She didn’t know I’d already felt her arrive.
“I wanted to apologise properly,” she said. “For earlier. And for the shirt at the airport.”
I glanced at my phone, typed a final message to Santino, trying to stay indifferent.
“It doesn’t matter,” I said, flatly.
Holding her ground without dropping her gaze, she wouldn't let the moment dissolve.
God, this woman.
“It matters to me,” she said.
Then she bit her lower lip like the words escaped before permission. And I felt the tinge again. Those deep brown eyes stared at me—almost peeking into my barren soul. I set my phone down and studied her.
Her chest rose and fell with every breath. Shifting her blouse with it. Her cheeks seemed to have this constant blush and I was starting to wonder if it was because of me.
What the hell was wrong with me? She wasn’t even my type. And I don’t date. And I especially don’t do softness. I fuck women. That’s it. Just heat, release, and silence. That’s the rhythm. That’s the rule. Nothing more.
I felt the rage from Lorenzo fading. She made me feel something I didn’t recognise. And I didn’t like that either.
I don’t know what took over me. Maybe I spoke without thinking—so unlike me.
“Fine,” I said. “Buy me dinner.”
She blinked, surprisingly. Maybe she thought she’d offer an apology and leave, but I threw her a curveball. “Fine,” she said. “Just give me a moment.”
She didn’t hesitate. And she didn’t fucking flinch. That unsettled me more than her scent. I’d expected her to decline, to retreat. But she agreed, and that made me want to see what else she wouldn’t run from.
She spoke to someone over the phone, then came back. I stood, offering my hand.
“Marcello Vitale.” I introduced.
“Roxanne Talati.” She smiled.