I had heard the name Marco Deluca in passing, but it had meant little to me beyond being one of Daniel's high-profile contacts — one of those men who existed in rooms I'd never be invited into. Daniel sometimes drifted into worlds I didn't fully understand — politics, luxury business deals, high-society arrangements whispered over champagne — and I had learned long ago to keep my distance. The less I knew, the safer I felt.
That changed on a Thursday evening.
Daniel was hosting a private dinner at an exclusive, members-only restaurant in the heart of the city. It wasn't unusual for him to ask me to help coordinate the seating, oversee the menus, and smooth the flow of the event before quietly slipping away. But that night, as I adjusted the final place card, he surprised me.
"I need you here tonight," he said, fastening his cufflinks with practiced precision. "Take notes. Handle messages while I'm at the table."
I didn't question him. Daniel didn't make unnecessary requests.
At precisely eight o'clock, the man he'd been waiting for arrived — and from that moment, the atmosphere shifted.
Marco Deluca.
He was nothing like I had imagined. Tall, composed, and impeccably dressed in a tailored black suit, he carried himself with an effortless authority that drew the room's attention without him having to ask for it. The quiet murmur of conversation dulled as he entered. His dark eyes moved deliberately, scanning every corner, every exit, as though he were cataloging the world in a single glance.
When his gaze landed on me, it was brief — assessing, not admiring — as though I were a line item on a report rather than a person.
"This your assistant?" he asked Daniel. His voice was smooth, but there was a sharpened undertone to it — like silk stretched over steel.
Daniel nodded. "Isabella."
Marco's head inclined slightly, the smallest possible gesture of acknowledgment before his attention returned to Daniel. It wasn't rude. It was worse — indifferent.
The dismissal stung more than I expected. I wasn't looking for his approval, but something about the way he radiated control, as though the entire evening existed on his terms, unsettled me. I kept my focus on the notepad, writing fragments of their conversation: investments, real estate, "mutual arrangements" that didn't sound entirely clean.
Halfway through the evening, one of Marco's men — a tall, quiet shadow of a man in a gray suit — approached me. He slipped a folded note into my hand without a word.
"For you."
Inside, written in firm, neat handwriting, were three words:
Meet me outside. Now.
I froze. My gaze flicked toward their table — Marco hadn't moved. He was still speaking, his expression unreadable, the note's existence invisible to everyone else.
Every instinct screamed no. But there was something about the way the message was written — not a request, but an order — that told me refusal wasn't really an option.
Outside, the night air bit at my skin. The street was almost empty, quiet except for the distant rush of traffic. Marco stood near a sleek black car, hands in his pockets, posture relaxed in that deliberate way powerful men perfect.
"You were at the Lennox Hotel last week," he said without preamble.
The words landed like a blow. My pulse jumped. "I was told it was a serving job," I said slowly. "I left when I realized what it was."
He studied me for a moment that stretched too long. "Good. I don't deal with women who sell themselves. It's messy."
The comment hit a nerve. "Messy?" I repeated. "You don't even know me."
"I know enough." His tone didn't waver. "I watch the people who work for my friends. Daniel trusts you. That means people are watching you too. Which means you need to be careful where you show up."
My jaw tightened. "I don't take orders from you."
A faint smirk tugged at his lips. It wasn't amusement — more like challenge. "You will," he said quietly, "if you want to keep working for him."
His words weren't shouted, but they carried the quiet weight of threat — the kind that came from someone who didn't need to raise his voice to be obeyed.
I took a step closer, defiance rising in my chest. "I've survived worse than men like you."
Something flickered in his eyes — a flash of interest, maybe even respect — before it vanished behind that cold composure. "We'll see."
He stepped nearer, close enough that I caught the faint scent of expensive cologne and danger. "Stay away from situations that could be… misunderstood," he murmured. "You're not invisible anymore, Isabella. Act like it."
Then, without another word, he opened the car door and disappeared into the night, leaving me standing on the sidewalk with my heart pounding like a drumbeat I couldn't silence.
When I returned to the restaurant, Daniel's sharp eyes found mine immediately. "Everything alright?"
"Fine," I lied.
But nothing felt fine.
Marco Deluca was everything I despised in a man — arrogant, calculating, and utterly certain of his own power. The worst part was, he wasn't wrong. In his world, power was its own truth.
Over the following weeks, I saw more of him than I ever wanted to. He appeared at Daniel's office without warning, always with that same measured confidence. Sometimes he spoke to me directly — a curt instruction, a clipped remark. Other times, he ignored me completely, as though I were invisible again, testing how far I'd push back.
One afternoon, Daniel asked me to deliver a sealed envelope to Marco's penthouse.
The moment I stepped inside, I understood the man better. The space reflected him perfectly — elegant, disciplined, stripped of unnecessary warmth. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the city skyline; every object in the room seemed placed with intention. The silence there wasn't accidental. It was engineered.
Marco was on the phone when I arrived, his voice low and commanding. When his gaze flicked toward me, I felt it like a touch — quick, weighing, precise. He ended the call with a quiet finality that left the room humming.
"You're early," he said.
"I like to be on time," I replied evenly.
He tilted his head, studying me. "That wasn't a compliment." His mouth curved slightly, the hint of a smirk playing there. "You're here, so you might as well listen. I have work for you."
I stiffened. "I work for Daniel."
"Daniel works with me," he corrected smoothly. "Which means, sometimes, you'll work for me."
And in that moment, I realized the truth I'd been avoiding since the night we met — whatever world Daniel had pulled me into, Marco Deluca was the one who owned it.