March 13, 1986 — Monte Carlo, Monaco
The engine of the black Rolls-Royce Phantom purred like a satisfied feline as it slid through the illuminated avenues of Monte Carlo. The city, as perfect as it was unreachable, smelled of fresh money, aged perfumes, and promises that only ever half-delivered. White facades. Museum-like gardens. Collector cars. And the sea in the background, licking the coast like an accomplice who had seen everything.
In the back seat, Marco rode alongside his cousin, SergioConde. The vehicle's interior was immaculate: dark wood, ivory leather, and the discreet aroma of exclusivity.
And yet, the atmosphere felt tense. Not because of what was said. But because of what Marco was giving off.
Pheromones.
Sergio turned his face toward the window, stifling a grimace. Then, with a mixture of irritation and affection, he placed a hand on Marco's shoulder.
—Relax —he said quietly, without looking at him—. Your scent is going to knock out the driver… and me.
Marco took a deep breath. Yes, he was tense. Every muscle screamed it. The weight of the trip. The meeting with the Monegasque partners. The pressure of closing a deal worth millions…
And that unbearable feeling of always being watched.
He forced a smile.
—Come on, Sergio… not every day you sign deals like this.
—It wouldn't be the end of the world if you didn't —Sergio replied, with that passive-aggressive calm he had perfected over the years. He adjusted his petrol-blue tie, perfectly matched to his light suit, as if that alone could fix anything.
A moment of silence followed.
—How's my aunt? —Sergio asked casually, like casting a line he knew better than to throw.
Marco didn't answer right away. He looked out the window as if he could swallow the Swiss watch displays, the empty avenues, the flawless buildings.
Luxury surrounded him, but didn't touch him.
A faint smile curved his lips.
—She's fine. I guess.
Sergio tilted his head, an almost brotherly expression. He knew Marco better than anyone. Better than Leonardo. Better than Ann.
—Still not talking?
Marco exhaled through his nose, loosening his tie like it was choking him.
—You know how she is. We were never really… fighting. Not exactly. But also… —he paused, swallowing venom with elegance— …she never really accepted me.
Sergio shook his head lightly, eyes forward.
—Give her time. Astrid's not a bad woman.
Marco turned his face, one eyebrow arched, a faint sneer barely concealed.
—I've given her twenty-six years —he replied with controlled voice—. And believe me, if she were going to change… she would've by now.
Silence. Not awkward, Just… heavy.
Like an old slab no one wants to touch, but everyone knows is there.
Sergio didn't reply. Maybe because he knew Marco was right.
Marco never grew up without love. His father raised him with pride and discipline. Leonardo guided him. Ann held him together.
But Astrid…She was a different story.
A woman perfect on the outside. Cold on the inside. A mother who never raised her voice, but never looked at him either.
It wasn't violence.
It was omission.
It was neglect. Erasure.
From day one.
She refused to breastfeed him, claiming "Marco drained her."
As if he were a tumor. A burden.
And Marco took years to understand it. Years more to stop asking himself what he'd done wrong.
Until he got it: She rejected him because he was like her. Physically. Mentally. In the sharp gaze. In the obsession. In the need to either control everything… or destroy it all.
Astrid had tried to mold him. To tame him.
And all she did… was create her reflection.
Marco Bianchi wasn't an accident.He was an extension.
Obsessive. Egocentric. Cruel.
A mirror she couldn't stand to look into.
Marco didn't blame her. But he had no interest in healing what was rotten from the start.
—She's crazier than ever now —he said suddenly, flat—. But that's not my fucking problem anymore.
Sergio clenched his jaw. Said nothing.
Marco adjusted his watch. Straightened his cuffs. Closed his eyes for a moment. Once he stepped out of that car, he had to be the golden heir again. The Bianchi who never cracks. The one who speaks with his eyes. The one no one dares to ignore. Tonight, everything had to go perfectly. Not even blood-soaked ghosts were going to fuck it up.
——
The restaurant was a hidden gem in the heart of Monte Carlo. Tall glass walls, hanging chandeliers, and a woman with a melancholic voice singing in French beside a pianist with soft fingers and an absent gaze. Every corner of the place seemed designed either to distract… or to hide something.
Marco walked beside Sergio, tense. The warm lighting and the air thick with expensive wine, cologne, and pheromones of every kind made his pulse race. His sense of smell was overly sharp. Too sharp.
Heavy scents overwhelmed him. Irritated him. Made him feel like he was suffocating inside a coat he couldn't take off.
—Table six —the driver had told them in a thick accent before opening the door.
And there it was.
A round table dressed in charcoal-gray linen, thin-stemmed glasses, and four men already seated.
Among them, Damián Ferreti.
Marco and Sergio exchanged a glance—brief, sharp—as if both had caught the scent of danger at the same time. What the hell was Damián doing here?
The silent twin with a lethal stare and predator's presence. Marco remembered that as a teenager—before the Andrea obsession—he used to watch Damián more than he liked to admit. There was something in his back, in his posture, in the way he looked like he'd seen things no one should see. A kind of soldier without a war.
They greeted politely. Marco brushed Damián's firm hand in a brief shake, then they sat down.
Charles Crovetto was the first to speak.
An imposing alpha, with well-managed premature gray at his temples and a smile that looked sealed on with fine lacquer. He was considered untouchable in Monaco, though rumors about his "travel agency" and mysterious income were as numerous as the bodyguards that followed him.
—A great opportunity, gentlemen —he said warmly, eyes fixed on Marco—. Monaco needs more fine pieces like Il Corvo.
Sergio nodded with practiced charm.
—It's an honor for us as well to bring a franchise of this caliber to a place like this.
Andrew Otto smiled with a cocky edge. The only beta at the table—but by no means the weakest. Tall. Aggressively attractive. Sharp features. Loose tongue.
—Pleasure to do business with people of solid reputation —he said, leaning slightly toward Sergio.
Marco raised a brow. Reputation?
Was Sergio the golden boy now?
Sergio, ever the diplomat, offered a modest smile. Marco spotted the faintest blush on his cousin's face.
He almost laughed. Almost.
It was Damián who brought the conversation back down to earth.
—The proposal is solid —he said in a flat tone, like reading a mission report—. But let's not sugarcoat it. Il Corvo is a strong franchise, yes… but it's also stuck. And we all know why.
The table turned to lead.
Marco felt the muscles in his neck tighten.The atmosphere thickened. The spiced scent of a nearby dessert started to turn his stomach.
—What exactly do you mean? —he asked calmly, though each syllable felt like a thread stretched to breaking point.
Damián's golden eyes locked on his. Cold. Controlled. Holding something darker beneath.
Charles cleared his throat. Avoided eye contact. His neck had a slight sheen of sweat.
Otto, on the other hand, was as blunt as a blade slammed on the table.
—We won't tolerate Andrea Ferreti's bullshit. Not in our playground. Not in a business we're about to sponsor.
And there it was.
The forbidden name.
The epicenter of all the shit Marco couldn't fix—even with bombs.
Sergio pressed his lips but spoke with finesse:
—Andrea is one of the masterminds of the project. He's contributed more than anyone at this table can imagine. His leadership took the franchise to an international level.
Otto snorted, leaning closer.
—And that justifies licking his boots? For such a refined alpha, you wear submission pretty openly.
Marco felt electricity run down his spine.
He glanced at Otto with sharp disdain, then turned to Damián.
Really? Even you?
Damián's face was stone. His eyes locked on Sergio, as if waiting for an answer.
—You can't just eliminate a kingpin —Sergio said, now visibly tenser—. It's not that simple. Andrea is embedded in this structure. Moving a piece like him could collapse the whole board.
Damián stared at him in silence. Then asked, quiet but firm:
—Are you afraid of him?
Sergio paled. Marco picked up the bitter scent of anger in the air—one that wasn't his.
He'd never admit fear in front of a Ferreti.
Never.
Marco leaned in.
—So what you're saying… —he began slowly— is that you want us to get our hands dirty? All this… just for a fucking casino in Monaco?
Charles smiled. Didn't deny it.Didn't soften it.
—That's exactly what I'm saying.
His glass clinked lightly as he set it back down.
—No one would suspect a Bianchi. Or a Conde. You two… you're the clean card. The gentlemen. The old-school heirs.—His eyes sparkled—. The perfect front.
And then he smiled. A dry smile. Precise.A weapon disguised as courtesy.