It started with a phone call. Daniel had been pulled into an emergency meeting out of town, which meant I was stuck late at the office, finishing his reports. The sun had long since dipped below the skyline, and the city lights were flickering on one by one. I was finally ready to lock up when my phone buzzed with an unknown number.
"Isabella." The voice was deep, smooth, and utterly unmistakable. My stomach sank.
"How did you get my number, Marco?" I asked, trying to keep my tone steady.
"I have ways," he replied casually, as if that explained everything. "I need you to bring me a file from Daniel's office. Tonight."
"It's after hours," I bit back.
"I didn't ask what time it was."
I bit back a groan. "And if I say no?"
"You won't."
Against my better judgment, I grabbed the file from Daniel's desk and headed to the address Marco had texted me. It wasn't his ridiculous penthouse this time—it was a quiet street in a part of the city I didn't know well.
The Meeting
When I arrived, the building looked like some kind of upscale private club. Inside, the lighting was dim, the air thick with the scent of cigars and expensive liquor. Men in suits lingered in corners, their conversations low and guarded.
Marco was at the back, leaning against the bar like he owned the place. His suit jacket was off, sleeves rolled up, revealing strong forearms. The sight irritated me more than it should have. He looked far too composed, too sure of himself.
"You made it," he said, taking the file from my hand without a thank-you.
"Now that you have it, I'm leaving," I said flatly, turning to go.
But as I did, two men stepped in front of the door. They weren't dressed like security—more like the kind of men you crossed the street to avoid.
"Change of plans," Marco said calmly, sliding the file onto the bar. "You're staying."
My eyes narrowed. "This wasn't just about the file, was it?"
He smirked faintly. "Not entirely. I need someone I trust to listen in and take mental notes. And before you start, yes—you're the closest thing I've got to someone I trust."
My laugh was humorless. "You don't trust me. You barely tolerate me."
"Exactly," he said, his tone infuriatingly calm. "Which means I know you're not stupid enough to double-cross me."
Before I could respond, three more men entered the room. Their conversation was sharp, in rapid Italian, with Marco occasionally switching to English for my benefit. It didn't take long for me to realize what was happening—this was a negotiation. Not about stocks or property, but territory. My pulse quickened. I was in the middle of a mafia meeting.
The Gunfire
Half an hour in, the tension in the room shifted completely. One of the men slammed his glass down and said something that made Marco's jaw tighten. He rose to his feet, his voice low but lethal. I couldn't understand the words, but I didn't need to—the threat in his tone was clear.
And then, as if someone had given an unspoken signal, the man reached into his jacket. Gun.
It happened in a blur. Marco stepped in front of me without hesitation, shoving me toward the bar as his men drew their own weapons. The room erupted into chaos—shouts, the sharp crack of gunfire, and the metallic tang of adrenaline in the air.
"Stay down!" Marco barked, pushing me lower behind the bar.
My heart hammered in my chest, but my eyes stayed locked on him. Even in the chaos, he moved like he'd done this a hundred times—controlled, precise, deadly.
When the noise finally died down, two of the men were gone, the others muttering angrily as they left. Marco straightened, rolling his shoulders like it was just another night at the office. He turned to me, his eyes scanning me quickly.
"Are you hurt?"
I shook my head, still catching my breath. "What the hell was that?"
"Business," he said simply, as if the answer should satisfy me.
"That's not business. That's—" I cut myself off, realizing there was no point. This was his world. And for a brief, terrifying moment, I had been inside it.
A Dangerous Truth
He handed me a glass of water. "You did good. You stayed quiet."
"I didn't 'do good,'" I snapped, standing. "You lied to me. You dragged me here without telling me what I was walking into. You put me in danger, Marco."
His gaze was steady, almost unreadable. "If I wanted you dead, Isabella, you wouldn't be here."
My eyes narrowed. "That's not the point."
He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "The point is, you were safer with me than anywhere else in this city tonight. Whether you like it or not."
I hated that he might be right. I hated even more that some small, treacherous part of me had felt… safer when he'd stood in front of me. I pulled my coat tighter and turned toward the door.
"Stay out of my life, Marco."
His reply followed me out, low and certain. "That's not going to happen."
The words clung to me all the way down the dim hallway, as if they'd wrapped invisible chains around me. Outside, the night air was cold, but not cold enough to erase the heat of his presence from my skin. I hated him—hated his arrogance, his world, and the way he could shield me one second and manipulate me the next. But deep down, an even more dangerous truth gnawed at me: part of me feared I'd see him again… and part of me feared I wouldn't.