Chapter MARCELLO
Two days later…
For two days, Violet's idea keeps bouncing around in my head like a loaded gun with the safety off.
She's right—forty grand is laughable for me.
I make double that before breakfast on a slow day.
But that's not the point. It's what she said beneath the words.
Build something. Make something yours. Flip it. Turn it into something better.
She was talking about dreams. I heard money laundering opportunity.
"Find me a list of abandoned multimillion-dollar homes," I tell Luciano without looking up from my phone.
He turns slightly in his seat. "We getting into real estate now?"
"Maybe." I shrug. "I'm mulling something over."
Quickly, I fill him in on my plan: buy high-end properties through shell companies. Pour in cash from the drug pipeline, the underground casinos, and the clubs to pay the contractors. Remodel. Flip. And just like that, the money is clean. A win-win, even if it barely breaks even.
Luciano whistles low. "You serious?"
"Dead."
We've used construction fronts for years—warehouses, dock expansions, shell restorations. This is the same thing, just wrapped in crown molding and quartz countertops. And the feds? They eat up anything that looks like upward mobility.
A mall. A hospital. Maybe a whole fucking neighborhood. My mind is already ten steps ahead. My little nurse has no idea she just handed me the blueprint for an empire.
A flicker of something—guilt, maybe—threads through my gut.
She was so proud when I watched that dumbass remodeling show with her.
She thought she had converted me. Thought I cared about backsplash patterns and fake drama between contractors.
I didn't have the heart to tell her the truth.
I was watching her. Watching the way she lit up when someone built something that mattered, all while I was figuring out how to weaponize it.
Marcello Orsi doesn't waste time on dreams. I turn them into leverage.
"We're here," Luciano says, pulling the car to a stop.
A slow smile pulls at my mouth. She'd disapprove of what I'm about to do. Strongly. Loudly. Probably with that adorable little frown and hands on her hips. But she'd still patch me up if I came home with blood on my knuckles.
"I'm ready."
It's been weeks since the men have seen me.
Weeks of rumors, whispers, and speculation.
That ends today. They need to see that I'm alive.
That I'm standing. That I'm still the man who built an empire from blood and grit.
And if my father ends up rotting in a cell, which is starting to look more likely by the day, they need to know who's next in line to wear the crown.
Me. Not because I'm the duly appointed male heir. Not because I'm the smartest. But because, despite it all, I'm the one who's still standing.
Luciano comes around and opens the door.
I've swallowed enough painkillers to dull a horse—something a little stronger than Violet's little Tylenol/Motrin combo.
I'm a hundred percent certain she'd strongly disapprove and lecture me about that, too.
In my mind's eye, I can see her, standing there, her arms folded over those enticing tits, glaring at me like I am her most difficult patient—which I'm sure I am.
She looks imposing and irresistible. I'm tempted to tell her, just to make this fantasy become real.
I step out of the car, deliberate and slow, pushing thoughts of Violet from my mind.
Weakness is a luxury I can't afford, especially now.
The sun catches on the chrome of the Escalade.
The large docking gate to the warehouse stands open.
Through my sunglasses, I see fifty pairs of eyes trained on me as the men watch my approach.
Silence hangs in the air. I set my jaw and put my foot down.
First, the good leg. Then the bad. I test the weight.
No pain—just stiffness. Enough to give me a limp, but not enough to break my stride.
The limp helps, honestly. A visual reminder of what I survived.
A visible scar that the men will respect.
I've also left the bandage off my head on purpose.
Let them see the patch of reattached skin.
The beginnings of stubble growing over the titanium plate beneath it. Let them stare. Let them remember.
The headshot should've killed me. Instead, I'm here. Ready to do business. Every man in front of me knows what it means to survive a hit like that. It means the devil doesn't want to deal with me yet. And if the devil doesn't want to deal with me, it means they better not fuck with me either.
These men are my underbosses, my lieutenants.
The men who've served under my father for decades.
The men who might be considering whether now's the time to make a move.
The men who think ambition gives them teeth.
They're about to choke on them. Like good little soldiers, they stand straighter as I approach. Shoulders back. Eyes forward.
"Boss," they greet me, almost in unison.
Not Capo—not yet. That title still belongs to my father, at least on paper. But it's in their eyes—the quiet acceptance, the tension in their spines, the flickers of doubt dying off like embers in the wind.
I nod once. That's all it takes. The message is clear: I'm still standing.
And anyone thinking about testing me? I hope they've already said goodbye to their families.
"Thank you for coming tonight," I begin. "I know you all have better things to do with your evenings—family, food, mistresses—but I promise, this little presentation won't take more than an hour."
The warehouse is silent aside from some nervous shifting of feet.
The loading dock gate slams shut like the sealing of a crypt—loud, final, and heavy with the kind of silence that doesn't let the living back out.
Some of the men jerk slightly. I take note of who.
Like all midsize predators, they realize when a bigger one is in their midst, one ready to make an example.
I glare at the row of fifty men lined along the walls, watching their eyes flick to the scar on my head, the fresh skin where a bullet tried to erase me.
I keep walking, slow and deliberate. To extend their tension and to camouflage the stiffness in my hip.
Soon, I'll have to break down and accept the physical therapist Violet has been trying to shove down my throat.
I don't like it, but I like the stiffness in my limbs less.
But first things first—a little demonstration.
I take another step. In the stillness, every step bounces off the concrete floor like it's trapped in a mausoleum, searching for a way out.
"I'm not here to ask questions," I say, putting more steel into my voice.
"I already know one of you has been feeding information to whoever's been trying to put me in the ground. "
Intently, I watch their expressions, note a flinch here and there.
Some freeze. But all of them listen. It's like a game of poker where you try to figure out who holds the losing hand.
Only tonight, one of them, at least, stands to lose a lot more than a few thousand dollars. Tonight, lives will be forfeit.
"Before any of you get clever and try to lie to my face," I continue, "let me save you the trouble—I already know who it is."
I don't, but I keep walking up and down the row like I do. Letting the silence and tenseness stretch and grow.
"Arturo," I call one of the men out. He doesn't flinch when I stop in front of him. I push my sunglasses up. He meets me with a steady gaze. "I don't think it's you," I say, slapping his cheek lightly. "You don't rattle easily. You don't leak either."
He nods once, and I move on. "Bruno."
He twitches. Sweat dribbles down his neck.
"I'd be disappointed," I murmur, "but I don't think you've got the spine to lie to my face."
"N-never, boss," he stammers.
I don't reply. Just keep moving.
By the time I reach Benny, the asshole is about to piss himself. The stench of fear permeates the air like acid.
I sigh in disappointment. "Oh, Benny."
His legs nearly buckle when I throw an arm around him. "I had such high hopes for you."
A choked sob escapes him. With a loud sigh, I steer him into the center of the warehouse, while the others silently watch. No one steps forward or tries to intervene. The stink of rat is getting stronger and has reached them too.
"Knife," I order.
Luciano places the blade into my hand without hesitation. Benny stares at it like it's already inside him. "Boss… please. I didn't mean to— They said if I didn't talk, they'd come for my family—my baby, he's only three weeks old—"
I crouch slightly, voice still calm. "You bet on the wrong horse. You should have come to me. We would have worked it out."
He collapses to his knees.
"Who?" I ask, trying to sound gentle when all I want is to ram that damn knife down his fucking, lying throat.
Benny's shoulders shake. "I don't know his name… I swear. We met once. He asked questions. Small ones at first. Then bigger ones. Operations, schedules. Things I thought wouldn't matter."
I tap the pointed blade against his cheek a few times, waiting for him to continue. When he only sobs, I cut a thin line down from his ear to his lips. He screams.
"Let's keep it simple for now, Benny. What does he look like?"
"He's older," Benny chokes. "Well built. Graying hair. Scarred face. Eye patch. I don't know who he is—I swear it!"
I turn to Luciano, who raises a surprised eyebrow at me. I only know of one man who might have the guts to pull this off, with a scarred face and an eyepatch. Fabio Becattini.