Page 55 of Mafia Kingdom

I'm almost at the main path when Marco spots me. His expression shifts from distraction to shock to fury in the span of a heartbeat. He cuts across the lawn, intercepting me before I can reach the gate.

"What the hell are you doing?" he demands, grabbing my arm and pulling me against the garden wall, out of sight from the main house. His face is bruised, a fresh cut above his eyebrow, knuckles raw and bloodied. He's been fighting.

"I need to see Lily," I say, trying to keep my voice steady despite the anger and concern radiating from him. "Karen's not answering her phone. Something's wrong, I can feel it."

"So your solution is to what? Scale the wall and walk to her house?" His grip tightens on my arm. "Do you want to get yourself killed?"

"I'm not your prisoner, Marco!" The words explode from me, all the frustration and confusion of the past weeks boiling over. "I can't breathe in there! I can't just sit and wait while my sister might be in danger!"

"You're not thinking clearly," he says, his voice dropping to a dangerous level. "If you leave this estate without protection, you'll be dead before you reach the main road. Is that what you want?"

Tears burn in my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. "What I want is my sister! What I want is my life back! What I want..." My voice breaks. "I don't even know anymore."

Something shifts in Marco's expression—the fury giving way to something more complex, more vulnerable.

"I'm trying to keep you alive, Sasha." His voice cracks slightly, revealing the strain beneath his controlled exterior. "Everything I do—it's for you."

The confession hangs between us, unexpected and raw. I stare at him, trying to reconcile the brutal mob boss with the man looking at me now, his eyes reflecting a pain that goes beyond physical wounds.

"Why?" I whisper, needing to understand. "Why does it matter to you if I live or die?"

Instead of answering, he pulls me against him, his mouth crashing down on mine. The kiss is desperate, almost violent in its intensity. I should push him away, should run as far and as fast as I can from this man and everything he represents.

But my body betrays me, responding to his touch like it's been conditioned to do. My hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer as his tongue invades my mouth, tasting of whiskey and something distinctly, dangerously Marco.

We break apart, both breathing hard. His forehead rests against mine, our breaths mingling in the small space between us.

"You know why," he says quietly, an answer that answers nothing.

Before I can respond, the sound of approaching footsteps makes Marco tense. He straightens, instantly reverting to the cold, controlled crime boss.

"Mr. Walsh?" One of his men appears around the hedge. He hesitates when he sees us together, clearly sensing the charged atmosphere. "Sorry to interrupt, but your father's on the phone. Says it's urgent."

Marco nods, dismissing him with a look. When we're alone again, he turns back to me, his expression unreadable.

"We need to talk," he says. "But I have to take this call first. Wait for me in my study."

It's not a request. I should be angry at his high-handedness, at the way he expects obedience without question. But I'm too emotionally drained to fight anymore.

"Fine," I concede. "But after, we're discussing Lily. Today is the second day, Marco. You promised."

A shadow crosses his face, something like regret flashing in his eyes. "I know what I promised," he says. "Just…wait for me. Please."

The "please" catches me off guard. Marco Walsh doesn't ask; he commands. The unexpected courtesy feels like a small victory, though I'm no longer sure what game we're playing or what winning would even look like.

I follow him back to the house, Buddy trotting loyally beside me. Marco veers off toward his office while I continue to his study as instructed. The room smells of him—expensive cologne, leather, and the faint trace of gunpowder that seems to cling to him no matter how immaculate his appearance.

I settle into one of the leather armchairs, absently running my fingers along the intricately carved wooden armrests. How many men has Marco threatened from behind that imposing desk? How many death sentences has he handed down from this very room?

Yet, last night, he'd held me with unexpected gentleness, his touch almost reverent as he explored my body. The contradiction makes my head spin.

Time passes slowly. I browse the bookshelves lining the walls.

Nearly an hour later, the door finally opens. Marco enters, his expression grim, shoulders tense beneath his tailored shirt. He's washed his face and hands, but the bruises are darkeningagainst his pale skin. Whatever conversation he had with his father has only increased the weight he carries.

"How much do you know about Lucas?" he asks while pouring himself a glass of whiskey from a crystal decanter.

The question catches me off guard. "Your brother? Not much. Just what I've heard from your men and seen myself."

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