April 15th, 1986 – Los Angeles, U.S.A.
Bianchi Family Private Equestrian Club
Marco gave his suit jacket a sharp tug as he strode through the club's gardens. The midday sun bore down without mercy, and the gleam of freshly cut grass struck his eyes like an insult. He was exhausted. Sleep had become a useless exercise: endless tossing in bed, cursed memories slipping between the sheets, anxiety… and that lingering, almost physical presence of Andrea, as if his scent had clung to Marco's skin.
Ron walked beside him, as immaculate as ever, though Marco caught a faint trace of tension in his scent. He cast him a sideways glance.
—How are things with the Monaco partners?
—Fine —Marco replied without turning his head—. Though Sergio's backing out. Says he won't go through with the plan.
—It's dangerous —Ron murmured.
Marco gave the slightest nod.
—But we've already started. There's no turning back. Not after bribing all those damn cops… and especially not with the illegal cargo already on its way, waiting to be pinned on Ferreti.
Ron didn't answer. His scent stayed neutral, but Marco knew he was swallowing hard to keep his beta instincts from interfering. It was a dirty move, yes. But they'd stopped playing fair a long time ago.
When they reached the center of the grounds, Marco saw Leonardo and Adriana speaking with two guests. She, with her belly rounder than the last time, radiated a maternal sweetness that drifted through the air like a warm perfume. Leonardo looked proud, content. That perfect home image, with its syrupy omega pheromones… Marco despised it. But he smiled.
He approached Adriana and kissed her hand in a calculated gesture.
—You're dazzling, as always.
She smiled back, tucking her hair behind her ear. Leonardo greeted him with a slap on the back, the relaxed, territorial scent of a satisfied alpha filling the air.
—I'm glad to see you, Ron —he said—. Thought you wouldn't make it.
—A couple of complications —Ron replied.
Marco seized the moment to look at his brother.
—Do you have a name yet?
Leonardo exchanged a knowing glance with Adriana.
—Adri wanted to name her Andrea if it was a girl.
Marco frowned.
—Andrea? Seriously?
Adriana nodded with pride, her scent firm yet warm.
—I love my little brother, no matter how much he makes himself hated.
—But it's a boy, and he'll be Miles, after our great-grandfather —Leonardo added, pinching his wife's cheek—. With any luck, he won't inherit the Ferreti temper.
Marco let out a hollow laugh.
—How sweet —he murmured, though inwardly he thought it would be a curse to carry that bastard's name.
—Aren't you riding today? —Leonardo asked.
—I will, in a bit.
—I already did —Leonardo said—. With Andrea and Alessandro this morning. They're still at it.
Marco barely managed to hide his grimace. Him again. Where the hell wasn't Andrea these days?
As if the thought had a scent of its own, two figures appeared in the distance on horseback: one white, one black.
The hooves struck the ground with an arrogant rhythm. Andrea and Alessandro dismounted with the effortless grace of alphas who knew exactly what they were, the wind lifting the mingled scent of leather, sweat, and testosterone.
The damn Ferreti effect.
It wasn't just presence: it was pure biology. That way of claiming space, of letting their pheromones mark territory before even opening their mouths.
Andrea smiled. Of course he did. That crooked, taunting smirk, with the gleam in his eyes that smelled of challenge and anticipated victory. Marco felt his stomach tighten —and not just with anger.
—What's wrong, Bianchi? —Andrea said, dismounting from the white horse—. You look… pathetic in that suit.
Marco rolled his eyes. His tie was perfectly adjusted, his jacket immaculate, his hair in place. He knew he looked damngood… and Andrea could smell it.
—Does it bother you, Ferreti? Or are you just projecting?
—Just a little advice —Andrea said, hanging his helmet from his arm—. Horses get nervous around tense people. And you smell… like a battlefield.
Ron coughed to cover a laugh. Leonardo and Adriana drifted away with Alessandro, avoiding the obvious electricity thickening the air.
Marco stepped forward. Andrea didn't move, and his alpha scent intensified —solid, almost pressing against Marco's own.
—Maybe I should thank you —Marco said in a low voice—. Thanks to you, I have extra motivation. You don't get the chance to bury a Ferreti every day.
Andrea tilted his head, predator's glint in his eyes.
—So you still fantasize about that?
—Every day.
Andrea smiled as if Marco had just paid him a compliment.
—Then make sure your hand doesn't shake when the time comes, Bianchi.
Marco closed the gap. Barely a few inches separated them; their pheromones collided in a muted clash, an invisible pulse that thickened the air.
—When that moment comes —Marco whispered—, it won't. I promise you.
Andrea's gaze dropped to Marco's tie, adjusting it with two fingers. It wasn't an innocent gesture: it was an invasion of space, blatant dominance.
—How cute. I sometimes forget how much you want me.
Marco stepped back before instinct dragged him under.
Andrea turned and walked toward the stables with that sure-footed stride, the scent of a satisfied alpha clinging to every step. Marco's eyes followed him.
Ron came closer.
—You okay?
—Perfectly —Marco said through clenched teeth.
It was only a matter of time.
——
The gallop marked a dull pulse over the beaten dirt track. To the west, the sky burned in shades of orange, lavender, and amber—like embers the wind couldn't quite extinguish. Marco left the heart of the club behind and took an outer path, seeking the only company he could tolerate: silence.
Beneath him, the black stallion—all muscle and nerve, obedient as a soldier—responded to every pressure of his legs. Marco loosened the reins and let him move at his own pace, the cool breeze lashing against his face. For the first time all day, he breathed without feeling a weight on his chest. Out here, between pines and open fields, life was reduced to instinct and movement.
He thought about what was coming.
About what he might never live to see.
Alive or dead? Hard to tell. In his world, the line between a toast and a bullet to the back of the head was a thread cut in silence. But one thing was certain: he would not leave without an heir. The Bianchi name had to endure—even if that meant chaining himself to a hollow life, to a loveless marriage that would rot his soul from the inside out.
The horse let out a deep neigh, and Marco lowered his hand to stroke the warm, tense neck.
—What would you do in my place? —he murmured, not expecting an answer.
Then it hit him.
That smell.
The kind you recognize even in your sleep.
—Talking to yourself? —the voice came from behind, carrying that mocking cadence that boiled his blood.
Marco didn't turn.
—No one ever taught you to respect personal space?
The slow rhythm of approaching hooves. Andrea appeared, riding with infuriating calm, helmet dangling from his arm, dark hair flowing in the golden wind.
—I'm not invading anything —he replied lightly—. The field belongs to everyone.
Marco rolled his eyes, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a smile.
—What do you want?
Andrea smiled slowly. That serpent's smile.
—Sometimes, you have to greet old friends.
—We're not friends —Marco cut him off, flat.
Andrea feigned a pained grimace, but his eyes carried not a trace of fragility.
—That… hurt.
The two horses, as if pulled by the same tension, closed in until they stood at a dangerous distance—one breath, one accidental brush, and they could feel each other's heat.
—Do you know the story of this estate? —Andrea asked suddenly, his tone turning grave.
Marco glanced sideways.
—No. And I'm not interested.
—You should. It belonged to the Cromattis. An alpha and an omega who married young. He loved her with everything he had… but he lost too many children. Some never took a breath. Others… faded for no reason. One by one, those losses broke her.
Marco's brow furrowed. He hadn't expected to hear that.
—The alpha… desperate, watching her destroy herself, poisoned her —Andrea spoke like someone crawling toward an inevitable end—. So she would stop suffering.
Marco stared at him, incredulous.
—And what did he gain from that? He ended up alone. Without love. Without children.
Andrea kept his eyes on the horizon, where the sun drowned behind the trees.
—I thought the same… until I understood that sometimes love gains nothing. It just acts.
Silence fell. Heavy.
Marco dropped his gaze, annoyed at the stirring in his chest. Kill for love? Renounce out of compassion? Absurd. Yet the heat at the back of his neck whispered something else.
Andrea was closer now. Not close enough to touch, but close enough for his scent to wrap around him, for the pheromones to scrape against his skin—a reminder of what he was. Alpha against alpha. Instinct against instinct.
Marco inhaled deeply, trying to ignore the electricity crawling up his spine.
—It was a selfish act.
Andrea tilted his head slightly, a half-smile on his lips.
—To some. To others… it was love. The alpha carried the weight of two souls. That was his penance.
Marco hated him. Hated him for saying it like that, for using that voice, for planting images in his mind he didn't want to have.
He looked straight ahead, avoiding his gaze like it was a trap. His heartbeat hammered against his ribs. His hands were damp against the reins.
Damn Andrea.
—What a load of sentimental crap —Marco spat, turning his horse—. It's getting late.
He didn't wait for a reply. He took off at a gallop. But he couldn't shake the feeling of him behind: his eyes drilling into his back, the heavy scent following him, that electric current clinging to his skin.
And he hated it. Hated him for making him feel.
Because, in the end, what the hell was he, if not a man who breathed beyond his own rage?