Wolves at the Door
The second the door clicked shut behind Marco, the warmth he’d carefully cultivated around Luca dropped from his face like a silk sheet.
He turned to Antonio. The older man tensed immediately, eyes darting between Marco’s drawn jaw and the faint trace of honey and vanilla in the air. He knew not to speak first.
Smart.
“What did they do?” Marco asked, voice low.
Antonio exhaled. “Message came in an hour ago. We use a dead drop at the construction site on 43rd. Unmarked envelope.”
He passed over a sealed folder. Marco took it. His heart was already beating too fast—not with fear, but with fury. He opened the flap and pulled out the contents—a photo. Luca was walking into the florist’s shop three days ago. Bunny tucked under his arm.
Another—blurry but clear enough. Through the Villa window.
Marco is in the kitchen. Luca, barefoot in a hoodie, smiling.
There were words scrawled across the bottom of one image.
“Soft kings fall the hardest.”
Marco didn’t move.
Didn’t breathe.
He handed the folder back with steady fingers.
“Tell me who knows about this.”
Antonio straightened. “Just me, Nicco, and the runner. I took care of the runner.”
“Good. If Nicco so much as whispers, you end him too.”
“Yes, sir.”
Marco turned and glanced through the door, toward the sound of a colored pencil scratching paper. His heart broke a little, hearing it.
Luca was still trying, still holding onto his calm, to his little space. He had no idea the wolves were already licking their teeth.
Marco faced Antonio again. “Double all security on this property. I want to find this traitor. I want eyes on every Scarpelli asset. Freeze movement. No retaliation until I say.”
Antonio blinked. “You’re not going after them?”
Marco’s voice dropped to a cold, dangerous whisper.
“Oh, I’m going after them. But not yet. First, I build the cage. Then I break their teeth. Then I burn the body.”
Antonio swallowed hard. “Understood.”
Marco dismissed him with a flick of two fingers.
Once he got in his car, Marco leaned back against the door for a breath—just one.
Then he locked every bolt. When he stepped back into the Villa, Luca looked up from the coloring book—still sitting on the floor, wrapped in his hoodie and softness. His big eyes searched Marco’s face for answers.
And Marco gave him the only one that mattered, “You’re safe.”
Luca blinked slowly. “Okay.”
Marco walks into the kitchen. Turned on the kettle and pulled out the mint tea.
He worked in silence, but inside, his mind was a weapon—calculating, ruthless, focused.
He would handle the Scarpellis. Quietly. Lethally, but not today.
Today was Luca’s, because he’d meant what he said; if the world wanted to come for Luca, it would have to go through him, and Daddy doesn’t let anyone touch what’s his.
Luca lay stretched out on the couch, head in Marco’s lap, wrapped in the thick knit blanket he loved most. His grandmother made it for him. All black, pink, and red. She knew his favorite color was pink, but he told everyone it was black. Except for Marco, he knows as well. The one that smelled like vanilla and leather and home.
Marco’s fingers ran through his dark curls with a slow rhythm. The TV murmured in the background—some old cartoon with talking animals and soft colors. Luca wasn’t really watching. He was listening.
Listening to the silence underneath Marco’s breath. The way his leg bounced every few seconds. The way his hand tightened when Luca almost drifted too deep into little space.
He wasn’t saying anything, but Luca felt it. Something was wrong.
“Marco?”
“Mmm?”
“You’re being weird.”
Marco chuckled low, the sound like honey stirred into warm milk. “I’m always weird.”
“No. Like…” Luca peeked up at him. “Your weird is usually warm. This is cold, weird.”
Marco paused. His hand stilled.
Then he leaned down, kissed Luca’s forehead, and whispered, “You’re safe.”
That should’ve helped, but it only made Luca’s heart twist tighter, because you’re safe was something Marco only said when he thought maybe Luca wouldn’t be.
In the office behind two locked doors, Marco moved like a shadow through the dim light. The digital table map in front of him glowed blue and red—each dot a person, a building, a threat.
He updated the security protocols with ruthless precision.
Shift patterns. Patrol routes. Blind spots covered.
He’d already rotated Luca’s guards. The last team had seen too much—seen him in little space. That wasn’t just a leak. That was a liability.
He checked the video feed from the rooftop across the street from the flower shop—one of his snipers, now stationed full-time. Not that Luca would ever see him. He was a ghost.
Two floors down, a team was repurposing the old wine cellar into a bolt room—safe, quiet, impenetrable.
Every inch of the building now responded not just to Marco, Second-in-Command, but to Marco, Daddy.
He moved to the desk. Opened a drawer. Pulled out a black velvet box and clicked it open.
Inside: a ring.
Simple. Silver. Matte.
He hadn’t planned to give it yet.
But today reminded him—life doesn’t wait.
His burner phone buzzed.
A message from a contact inside the Scarpelli crew.
“They’re watching the florist. They think he’s the Don’s weakness.”
Marco stared at the screen for a long moment.
Then typed back:
“They’re half right. He’s the Don. And I’m the fucking apocalypse.”
He turned off the phone. Locked it back in the drawer.
Then he walked softly back to the bedroom.
Luca was curled up in the bed, surrounded by pillows and his stuffed bunny. Asleep now. But restless.
Marco slid in beside him. Pulled him into his arms.
Luca stirred, sighed, and pressed his face to Marco’s chest without waking.
Marco kissed his curls.
“I’ve got you, baby,” he whispered, and he did.
With one hand cradling Luca close, and the other wrapped around the throat of anyone who’d ever dare try to take him.
