February 26, 1986 — Milan, Italy
Leonardo's words still lingered in the air—heavy, dense, and drenched in solemnity:
—This child is not just a mix of last names. It is the union of two families. A legacy sealed.
The applause that followed was brief and precise. No cheers, no excessive enthusiasm—just the kind of measured reaction one expects from the elite. Marco clapped as well, out of politeness more than conviction. His face showed neither joy nor displeasure—just that elegant emptiness of someone who knows they have no choice.
Perfect.
Now he'd have to see the Ferretis more often.
What a fucking privilege.
He still wondered how it had happened. When exactly had things twisted enough for Adriana and Leonardo to cross the line. Sure, they'd known each other all their lives—shared the same dusty summers, the same long lunches in the countryside. But when had that started to mean something else? When had it become a promise?
Did Leonardo actually find that sharp, arrogant beauty that all the Ferretis carried like a second skin attractive?
Or was he just so egotistical that he thought he could tolerate those bastards for the rest of his life?
Poor idiot.
Marco had just finished thinking that when someone sat beside him. He didn't look. He didn't need to.
Mint.
—I'm pleased with this new union —Andrea said, as if commenting on the weather, casually sipping from his glass with the confidence of someone who owned the scene.
Marco didn't answer right away. He kept his eyes on the center of the garden, where Leonardo and Adriana were receiving congratulations, surrounded by smiles, embraces, and empty words.
—It certainly is —he finally replied, emotionless, raising his glass to his lips—. Now I get to see your beautiful face all the time.
He didn't bother to hide the venom.
Andrea tilted his head with that damned smile—that infuriating curve of lips that always hovered between innocent and cruel.
—I always knew you had a weakness for my face. I'm glad you're finally admitting it in public.
Marco looked away, chewing on his annoyance.
—Idiot.
Andrea shrugged, as if the insult were a flower tossed his way.
—Watch your tone, Mr. Bianchi. You sound upset.
Marco glanced at him sideways, eyes sharp.
—And whose fault do you think that is?
Andrea smiled, feigning indifference. He nodded to a passing businessman, as if that were the only thing worthy of his attention.
—It's not my fault there were outside parties that night —he said, like it was a minor hiccup.
Marco stared at him from the side.
Of course. Outside parties.
As if he hadn't seen him glance at his watch, give the damn signal and then—darkness.
What a useful accident.
—A convenient accident —he muttered, still staring at the garden.
Andrea didn't answer. Instead, he shifted slightly toward Marco.
He took his hand.
His fingers—long and cold—traced Marco's knuckles with deliberate slowness, as if he had all the time in the world. It was a simple gesture. But intimate. Dangerously intimate. Inappropriate. Out of line.
Marco turned sharply, his expression caught between disbelief and rage.
He pulled away instantly.
—What the fuck are you doing?
Andrea rested his cheek in his palm with infuriating calm.
—You still get nervous when I touch you —he murmured, with that smile that always left wounds—. Just like when we were ten.
Marco swallowed hard. The memory hit him uninvited.
Back when they were kids… Marco had lived for Andrea. Enduring him. Chasing him. Laughing with him. To the boy he once was, Andrea had been the center. Everything else was just noise.
A sharp pain crossed his chest. He forced himself to clear his throat, as if he could cough the past out of his body.
—I'm not a kid anymore.
—But you're still blushing —Andrea replied, unbothered, unkind.
—It's hot.
The hmm he let out after was almost a sigh—one of those soft sounds that always knew more than they said.
—Sometimes I think it's a shame that—
—Stop —Marco interrupted, tense as wire.
But Andrea went on, as if the words had been waiting all along.
—…that you're an alpha. Because if you weren't, instead of our siblings, we'd be the ones getting engaged tonight. Maybe… there'd even be a pretty little child in your belly right now.
The grimace was instant. Marco turned his head as if he'd been spat on.
—Go fuck yourself —he hissed, biting down each word with restrained fury—. Even if I were an omega, I'd still hate you with every cell in my body. I would never let someone as despicable as you knock me up. To me, Andrea, you're nothing. Just an arrogant bastard who knows nothing about life.
The silence that followed wasn't just tense.
It was brutal.
Andrea held his gaze for a few seconds. Then he nodded, just once, no smile.
He stood with that elegant, almost feline grace of his. And then, unexpectedly, extended a hand toward Marco.
Marco looked at it, confused. He expected a comeback. A sharp line. Something. But nothing came. Just that hand. That strange gesture. Out of character.
Marco held back the urge to ask where he was going. Forced himself not to move. Not to care.
—I have important matters to attend to —Andrea said quietly—. It's been a pleasure.
And he left.
He walked over to Adriana and Leonardo, left a couple of kisses, a soft word, and then disappeared into the crowd.
Back straight.
Steps steady.
And his scent.
Mint.
And something else. As if he'd left something burning behind.
Marco ran a hand over the back of his neck—tension and shame coiled tight.
—Idiot —he muttered.
But this time…
he wasn't so sure who the real idiot was.
——
The cigarette burned slowly between his fingers. The ember glowed with the rhythm of a beast breathing—calm, dangerous. Andrea exhaled the smoke with the precision of a ritual, staring at the street in front of the hotel. The night was mild. The asphalt still held the day's warmth, and luxury cars floated beneath Bravura's golden lights like pieces of a silent ballet.
He glanced at his watch.
Fifteen minutes late.
He clicked his tongue.
And the memory returned. It bit down. It didn't matter how deep he tried to bury it.
"To me, Andrea, you're nothing."
Andrea smiled. One of those smiles that doesn't form on the mouth, but in the shadow behind the eyes. On the tongue. In the smoke.
He sometimes wondered why the hell he ever allowed Marco Bianchi such freedom. Why that Bianchi got under his skin so easily, when others barely grazed him.
It wasn't love. No. It was something older. Sicker. More primal.
They'd spent years as enemies. As counterweights. Rotten halves of the same scale.
But before that… they'd been children. And children don't hate. They obsess.
Marco chased him like someone gasping for air and Andrea, without wanting to admit it, chased him back. With his eyes. With his body. With every empty space in a room.
Marco said he hated him. That he despised him.
Andrea could never return that sentiment. He didn't despise him. He saw him as an equal. And for someone like Andrea… that was almost the same as love.
He remembered Chicago. A building half-finished. A moonless night. A plan perfectly laid out. A clean, surgical warning and yet… Marco escaped.
How the fuck had he done it?
Andrea clenched his jaw.
Marco was that, That error. That unacceptable margin.
Every time Andrea thought he had him, he slipped through his fingers like dry sand.
He hated him for that. For making him feel like he wasn't enough. For making him doubt.
For stirring that adolescent urge to dominate him. Break him. Remake him in his own image.
And at the same time…He wanted him the way people want the unreachable: with fury.
A voice interrupted the spiral:
—You're in a bad mood —said Alessandro, finally coming down the hotel steps, jacket still half-open.
Andrea didn't answer right away. He scanned him with a glance.
Fifteen minutes late.
The phrase wasn't shouted. It wasn't spat. It was ice.
Alessandro's hair was messy, his lips a little red, and a faint mark peeked out at his neck. The scent in the air gave him away—foreign pheromones, mingled with sweat. Andrea also picked up another note. Something sharp in the nose. Something… uncomfortable.
He didn't say a word. Just raised an eyebrow.
—There were too many people. I couldn't get away easily —Alessandro explained, as if that would suffice.
Andrea put out the cigarette with a quick turn of his shoe. Walked to the waiting black car, opened the door without looking back.
—Get in.
They both settled into the back seats.
The engine started with the smoothness of a secret.
And for a moment, everything was city: lights, shadows, silence.
—What about the trade routes? —Alessandro asked.
Andrea had another cigarette in hand but didn't light it. He stared out the window, absent.
—Frozen —he said flatly—. Investigations are too close. Eastern border's contaminated.
Alessandro let out an annoyed breath.
—I know whose fault that is.
Andrea tilted his head, eyes still on the glass.
—There are things we can't control.
—I can't believe you dared to stage an attack at an event like that.
The words dropped like a bullet. It wasn't a complaint.It was a verdict.
Andrea turned his face. Slowly. Cold.
—There's no proof.
—Andrea —Alessandro pushed, more irritated now—. We're losing money over your whim. Do you know what it costs to rebuild a distribution line? Do you know the kind of pressure the government agencies are putting on us?
—Don't lecture me —Andrea said. His tone didn't change. It didn't need to—. You don't have the moral ground to give me lessons after fucking an FBI agent.
The silence that followed was thick. Almost physical. Alessandro clenched his jaw. His fingers dug into his leg, like he wanted to bury his nails in the skin.
—You're not going to make me feel guilty —he murmured.
Andrea lit the cigarette. The golden lighter clicked once. The flame sparked like a verdict.
—That's not my intention —he said, smoke trailing from his lips—. After all, it's none of my business who you fuck. But there's a crow inside, Alessandro. And it's fucking with our plans.
He let the smoke fill the space between them.
Private fog. Selective intoxication.
—I don't know if that crow is in your bed, or just watching from a window. But someone's leaking information. And if we don't clean up soon, the Feds are going to shut down even the goddamn casinos.
Andrea finally turned his head. Stared.
—So for now, shut your mouth, act like a Ferreti, and do what you're told.
Alessandro didn't answer. Not out of fear. Not out of submission.
Because he knew Andrea was right.
And that…
that's what hurt the most.