March 13th, 1986 – Monte Carlo, Monaco
The night had darkened like ink spilled over velvet. The restaurant was now behind them, with its elegant music, expensive aromas, and conspiracies disguised as toasts.
Marco walked with a barely-there smile —dangerous in its subtlety. In his chest, something vibrated between satisfaction and expectation.
That dinner hadn't been a threat, It had been an invitation. Agoldenopportunity, he thought.
Sure, he could destroy Andrea on his own —he had power, influence, money, guts— but with allies like Crovetto, Otto, and Damián fucking Ferreti, the whole thing took on a different color. Sharper. More brutal.
Sergio's voice pulled him out of that thought.
—We're going back to the hotel. We're not going out again tonight.
His tone was dry. No room for negotiation.
Marco raised a brow.
—What happened to "Relax, trust the moment, take it easy," huh? —he mocked, lighting an invisible cigarette with that crooked smile of his.
But Sergio didn't answer.
He just gave the driver an address and stared out the window.
Marco's blue eyes watched him sideways.
His cousin was tense. Pale. The scent of discomfort was starting to creep through the leather-and-silence interior of the Rolls-Royce.
When they reached the suite, the air grew heavier. Sergio took off his jacket with sharp, frustrated movements —like someone who'd been holding in too much all night.
—I'm not taking part in this, Marco —he said suddenly, as if the words had to be thrown out before they choked him.
Marco was already sitting in a low chair, a bottle of aged Scotch in hand. He poured himself a drink slowly, letting the amber liquid fill the glass like Sergio's words weighed nothing.
—Oh, come on. Drop the fear. One of Andrea's own brothers wants him dead. That should tell you everything you need to know —he replied with an elegant sneer, swirling the glass lazily.
Sergio rolled his shoulders and dragged a hand through his chestnut hair in frustration.
—It's not our place if his family wants to kill each other. Andrea Ferreti may be a son of a bitch, but he's a keypiece on the board. And you know that without him, the whole structure collapses.
Marco let out a laugh.
Bitter. Dangerous.
—God. Are you really licking Andrea Ferreti's boots now?
Sergio turned his head slowly.
His eyes had shifted.
Darker now.
—Don't talk to me like that —he warned, voice low and restrained.
Marco shrugged, taking a long sip.
—Why not? You let it happen at that table. You even blushed when Otto complimented you like some debutante.
The pillow flew off the couch, hitting Marco in the chest with a soft but furious thud.
—Shut up, asshole. Otto's an idiot living off his father's rotting fortune. He doesn't know shit about business. Or about me. Or about you.
Marco chuckled and spilled a little whisky on the floor. The scent bled into the air.
—They questioned you and you didn't say a damn word —he accused, standing now, glass still in hand.
Sergio turned, shoulders tight as a wire.
—Do you think this is all just a fucking game, Marco? That it's just about winning, humiliating, stepping on others?
Marco stared at him.
—Isn't it?
Sergio closed his eyes for a second. Breathed in deep.
—This is an obsession. A sickness. A fucking fixation that's blindingyou —he said, firm.
Marco stepped closer.
—This… is the opportunity of a lifetime. To knock Andrea off his narcissistic pedestal. To make him fall. To watch him on his knees. And smile while he chokes on the dust.
Silence.
Sergio stared at him, jaw clenched.
—And then what, Marco? Will you feel better about yourself? Or will you just be empty… because there's no one left to hate?
Marco didn't answer.
—You know what will happen the day Andrea slips? —Sergio continued, this time lower, slower—. The day his empire falls… will be the same day yoursdoes too.
The words dropped like lead.
Marco stopped.
For a second, a flicker crossed his face. Doubt? Rage? Fear?
Nothing lasted long enough to tell.
He stepped in, set a firm hand on Sergio's shoulder, and offered a dry smile.
—Think about it. We get a casino in Monaco. And rid ourselves of a bastard like Andrea. No downside.
And without waiting for a response, he walked out of the suite. The door shut behind him with a dull, final thud.
Sergio was left alone, heart pounding. He looked at Marco's abandoned glass, still half-filled with whisky. The crystal gleamed under the soft light.
The words echoed like damp ghosts in his head.
"The day Andrea's empire crumbles… will be the day yours does too."
Maybe he was right.
Maybe he wasn't.
But the problem with Marco Bianchi was this:
Even when he won…
someone always lost
And Sergio was starting to suspect this time…
it might be everyone.
——
The room was shrouded in shadows, and the silence weighed like a slab of stone. Marco tossed and turned in bed, his body unable to find rest.The ceiling was all he could see.
His eyes wide open, like blinking had become a struggle.His breathing —slow, but laced with frustration.
He hated this. He hated sleeping alone.
Alphas weren't made for emptiness. He always had someone —a warm body, a voice, a presence. Sometimes an omega, all floral scent and hollow smiles. Sometimes Sergio, who slept beside him out of habit, family, business. But not tonight.Sergio was still pissed. And Marco wasn't about to beg for company.
He sighed.
Sat at the edge of the bed.
The mattress creaked beneath his weight.
Barefoot, he walked to the window, pulled the heavy curtains open, and let the pale moonlight lick his face.
The sea glinted in the distance, silver and slick like a pool of oil. He opened the balcony door, threw on a black robe, and stepped outside.
The night air hit him with a salty chill.
The old pheromones on his skin slowly faded, and with them… the fragile grip on his memory.
He leaned his elbows against the railing.
And thought of him.
Verona. Years ago.
They'd walked down wet streets, still teenagers —no labels, no titles.
A time when Marco wasn't yet a defined alpha… and Andrea? Andrea had already been everything.
It was autumn.
The kind that smells like rivers, wet stone, and dead leaves.
The moon hung huge above them, like an omen.
Marco walked beside him.
They didn't say much.
They didn't have to.
The Adige river flowed nearby, breaking the silence with gentle whispers.
Marco spoke first:
—Look how beautiful the moon looks reflected on the water.
Andrea nodded. And looked.
But Marco didn't.
Marco looked at him.
His hair tousled by the wind, his nose red from the cold, hands stuffed in his pockets. Even then, Andrea had the profile of a leader.
A born alpha. Unpredictable. Magnetic. Moonlight carved his face like sculpture.
He was beautiful —but not just that.
There was something more.
Something impossible to ignore.
—Yeah… I could die peacefully right here, you know? —Andrea had said with a soft laugh.
Marco smiled.
He could've died peacefully too, right then and there —if Andrea asked him to.
Andrea shivered.
Stepped closer.
Took his hands.
—Aren't you cold? —he asked in that voice of his —part sure, part gentle. The one he only used with Marco. That voice that brushed the line between instinct and something sacred.
Marco looked down. Their hands together —cold, shaking. His blood buzzed in his ears. His blush betrayed him.
Andrea chuckled softly and passed him his coat, wrapping it around Marco's shoulders like it belonged there.
—Good. You look cuter this way, —he teased, with a tenderness that made the world feel a little less cruel.
Marco scowled.
Bumped him with his shoulder, hiding in the coat like a wounded cat.
—Oh, shut up…
Andrea laughed but obeyed. He leaned on the bridge railing and breathed in deep.
—When we're older… we have to come back. Just youandme. To this memory.
Marco nodded.
No thought. No doubt.
Then, without knowing why, he leaned in.
Rested his head on Andrea's shoulder.
Closed his eyes.
Listened to him breathe.
Felt that warmth —immense, comforting, protective. Like for a second, his world stopped hurting. No hormone explained it.
No instinct.
Just that.
They were there. Existing.
Present. Monte Carlo.
Marco brought a hand to his forehead.
The memory wrapped around him like an old blanket. Pleasant —but dusty.
He pulled out a cigarette, lit it.
Exhaled slowly, letting the smoke disappear into the night.
—What a pathetic kid, —he muttered, smiling bitterly.
What would that version of Marco think now?
Of the man he'd become —a full-grown alpha, feared in three countries, but unable to fall asleep without that ache in his chest?
The same Andrea who gave him his coat…
Was now the Andrea he wanted to see burn.
He chuckled darkly.
"I'll have him, yeah."
But not with laughter.
Not with hands held.
Now, he'd have him three meters underground.
Where he could no longer keep fucking up his life.
Crushed. Broken. Done.
Because that was the only thing that gave him peace:
the idea of Andrea Ferreti no longer existing.
He stubbed out the cigarette on the railing.
Walked back into the room, robe dragging, gaze blank —memories clinging to his back like a corpse.
He collapsed onto the bed without removing a thing.
And this time, he didn't dream of the moon.
Only of smoke.
Of blood.
And a man with golden eyes who wouldn't stop staring at him.