MARCO POV
I'm going to die in seventy-two hours.
The thought circles my brain like a vulture as I sit in my study at three in the morning, staring at bank statements that don't add up. Two million dollars. Victor Castellano wants two million dollars in three days, and I can't access that kind of money without Dante noticing.
I've been stealing from my own family for two years. Six million total, moved carefully to offshore accounts in amounts small enough to slip past the auditors. I thought I was being smart. Strategic. Proving I could operate independently of my brother's shadow.
Instead, I proved I'm exactly what Dante always said I was: weak.
I pour another drink. The bottle is half empty, and my hands shake as I lift the glass. When did I become this person? When did I become so desperate that I'm stealing from my own blood and making deals with our enemies?
I know the answer. I've always been this person. I just spent years pretending otherwise.
The worst part isn't the money. It's knowing that Dante already knows. He's too smart not to. He's probably known for months and has been watching me dig my own grave, waiting for the perfect moment to bury me in it.
And now there's Isabella.
My wife. The woman I married as a business arrangement and promptly ignored. I see the way she looks at Dante. The way her body angles toward him in a room. The way her eyes follow him when she thinks no one is watching.
I see the way Dante looks at her too. Like she's a puzzle he's solved. Like she's something precious he's acquired.
Something is happening between them. I know it the way you know when a storm is coming. The air changes. The pressure builds. Everything feels wrong.
I should confront Dante. Demand the truth. Assert my authority as her husband.
But Dante is the most dangerous person I've ever known. He's been dangerous since we were kids, since the day our father beat our mother so badly she stopped moving and Dante looked at me with eyes like winter and said, "We survive. No matter what it costs."
Dante survived by becoming worse than our father ever was. Colder. More calculating. More willing to do what needed doing.
I survived by hiding behind him.
I down the rest of my drink and stand. The room tilts. I'm drunk, but not drunk enough to stop thinking.
I need to know what's happening with Isabella. I need to hear her say it to my face.
I find her in our bedroom at midnight. She's reading in bed, wearing silk pajamas that cost more than her entire wardrobe when we met. She looks calm. Serene. Completely unbothered by the fact that her husband is falling apart.
"What's going on between you and my brother?" The words come out harsher than I intended.
She looks up from her book, her expression neutral. "Nothing. He's been showing me the security systems."
"Don't lie to me." I move closer to the bed. "I see the way you look at him. The way he looks at you. Something is happening."
"Nothing is happening," Isabella says calmly. Too calmly. Like she rehearsed this conversation.
"I'm not an idiot!" My voice rises. The alcohol makes everything sharper, more painful. "My own wife is betraying me with my own brother right under my nose."
I grab her arm. Not to hurt her. Just to make her look at me. To make her see that I'm still here. That I still matter.
Isabella doesn't flinch. Doesn't cry. Doesn't do anything except stare at me with eyes that have gone completely cold.
"You married me as a business transaction," she says quietly. Each word is precise, cutting. "You haven't slept in my bed once since our wedding night. You've brought other women into this house while I stood there smiling like it didn't matter. You have no right to accuse me of betrayal, Marco. You taught me that this marriage is just performance."
The words hit like bullets. Each one finds a target I didn't know was vulnerable.
She's right. I have no right to be angry. I abandoned her emotionally the moment we said our vows. I treated her like decoration, like a trophy I could display and ignore.
But knowing I'm wrong doesn't make it hurt less.
"I was supposed to be like him," I hear myself say. My voice cracks. "I was supposed to be strong. Capable. Someone who could run an empire." I release her arm and step back. "Instead, I'm nothing. A coward who steals from his own family and hides behind lies."
The confession hangs between us. I've never admitted this to anyone. Never said out loud what I've always known.
Isabella's expression softens slightly. Not with love. With pity. Which is somehow worse.
"Then stop hiding," she says. "Fix your mistakes. Work with Dante to make this right."
"I can't." The words taste like ash. "He'll never forgive me. And even if he did, I could never be what he is."
I leave before she can respond. Leave before I completely fall apart in front of her.
My study becomes my prison. I drink until the room spins. I stare at my phone, waiting for Victor's next call. I review my bank accounts over and over, looking for money that doesn't exist.
At two in the morning, the phone rings.
Victor's voice is smooth, deadly calm. "Marco. Tell me you have good news."
"I need more time," I say. My voice sounds weak even to my own ears. "Three days isn't enough to access that kind of cash without raising flags."
"That sounds like a you problem." Victor's tone doesn't change. "We had an agreement. You promised payment in exchange for protection and territory. I've delivered my part. Now you deliver yours."
"I will. I just need one more week. Please."
"Please?" Victor laughs. "You're begging now? That's disappointing, Marco. Your brother would never beg. He'd find a solution or eliminate the problem. That's why he runs an empire while you run errands."
The words cut deep because they're true.
"I'm not my brother," I say quietly.
"No. You're not. Which is why you're in this position." Victor pauses. "You have seventy-two hours. Not a minute more. If I don't have my money, I'm sending people to the penthouse. They're going to take payment in other ways. Your wife is very beautiful, Marco. I'm sure she'd cover a portion of your debt."
My blood turns to ice. "Don't touch her."
"Then get me my money." Victor hangs up.
I sit frozen, staring at my phone. He threatened Isabella. Victor Castellano just threatened my wife because of my failures.
I want to throw up. I want to scream. I want to disappear and never face the consequences of what I've done.
Instead, I pour another drink.
The alcohol doesn't help anymore. It just makes the fear sharper. The walls feel like they're closing in. My chest is tight. My breathing is shallow.
I'm trapped. Completely, utterly trapped.
I can't get the money without Dante finding out. I can't ask Dante for help without admitting everything. I can't run because Victor's people will find me. I can't fight because I'm weak.
All my choices led here. Every theft. Every lie. Every moment of weakness compounding until there's no way out.
I think about calling Dante. Admitting everything. Begging for protection.
But I already know what he'll say. He'll look at me with those cold, knowing eyes and tell me I made my choices. Now I live with them.
Or die with them.
My phone buzzes. A text from an unknown number: "Your brother knows. He's been watching you for months. The only reason you're still alive is because he's waiting for you to make one more mistake. Don't disappoint him."
My hands shake so badly I drop the phone.
Dante knows. Of course he knows. He's probably known from the beginning. He's been letting me dig myself deeper and deeper, documenting everything, building a case against me.
And now I'm exactly where he wants me: desperate, exposed, trapped.
Another text: "Run. It's your only chance. Disappear before they come for you."
I stare at the message. Running means abandoning everything. My life. My family. My name.
But staying means death.
I look around my study. This penthouse that was supposed to prove I was successful. This life that was supposed to make me feel powerful.
All of it built on lies and stolen money and weakness.
I hear footsteps in the hallway. Someone's awake.
Dante? Isabella? Someone else?
My heart hammers in my chest. Every sound feels like a threat. Every shadow hides danger.
I'm losing control. Not slowly. Rapidly. Like sand slipping through fingers, like water circling a drain.
In seventy-two hours, Victor's people are coming.
And I have nowhere left to hide.
My phone rings again. I answer without looking, desperate for any lifeline.
"Marco Moretti?" A voice I don't recognize. Male. Professional.
"Yes?"
"This is Agent Martinez with the FBI. We need to talk about your business dealings with Victor Castellano. I'm offering you one chance to cooperate before we move forward with charges. You have until morning to decide."
The call ends.
FBI. They're watching me too. Everyone is watching me.
I'm surrounded by enemies I created through my own stupidity.
And the only person who might be able to save me is the brother I've betrayed and the wife I've neglected.
I look at the bottle of sleeping pills in my desk drawer. Easy escape. Permanent solution.
My hand hovers over them.
Then I hear it. A sound from upstairs. Isabella's voice, muffled but distinct.
She's talking to someone.
At two in the morning, my wife is awake and having a conversation with someone I can't see.
I know without checking who she's talking to.
Dante.
They're together right now while I'm falling apart.
The realization breaks something inside me.
I'm not just losing control of my life. I've already lost it. Everyone around me has been playing a game I didn't know existed, and I'm the only one who doesn't realize the game is over.