by Bethany-Kris
Cella had quickly become something to Marcus.
Something he didn’t understand.
An addiction, maybe.
An obsession, almost certainly.
She filled his thoughts when he should be focusing on literally anything and everything else but her. He struggled to keep his questions to himself while the two of them had a moment away from their very busy lives. All he wanted to ask was when are you coming back to me?
The woman wasn’t even his.
And fuck, he felt like maybe she could be.
Maybe he wanted her to be.
Those were very dangerous feelings for a man like him. Beyond that, it was quite the precarious situation he found himself in day after day. Never had something—or someone, for that matter—swept into his mind and life the way Cella Marcello did.
Nothing took away his focus.
And yet, she did it without trying at all.
La famiglia had been Marcus’s first love from the time he was old enough to understand what it meant to be a Guzzi son and appreciate his family’s legacy. To be made ... that was the only thing he ever wanted and worked for. Once he was a made man, taking care of the family took over his every waking moment.
Rarely did he do something for him. Never did something take away his attention. Except this woman, it seemed. And he couldn’t find it in himself to hate it.
“Marcus?”
“Hmm?”
He exited out of the previews of her plans, not at all concerned with the direction she had chosen to go with it. Frankly, he didn’t need to give his final okay, anyway. If anyone should be doing that, it was his father, but Gian wanted to be distanced from all this lest Cara stumble on something and ruin her great surprise.
Thing was, his father put all his faith and trust in Cella and her talent. He fully believed the woman would turn the penthouse into a modern space that Cara would adore and appreciate simply because it was Cella’s designs.
Marcus believed the same.
He didn’t need to give approval, either.
“What is it?” he asked when Cella stayed quiet on the other end.
“You’re ... uh, interested in me, right?”
His brow furrowed, and he almost turned to look at the phone he was holding as though it would allow him to look directly at the woman on the other end. “I’m sorry?”
“Me—you’re interested in me.”
“Wasn’t that obvious enough, or did I not make that clear for you? I can fix that if you’d like. Yes, I am absolutely interested in you. How could I not be?”
“Right,” she said, laughing dryly, “how could I think otherwise? No man just looks for only sex from a widow with a kid, I suppose.”
“Cella—”
“I don’t know, maybe a part of me wondered if that’s what it was. Just that for you, I mean. Or if I was reading too much—”
“Donna, you didn’t read nearly enough into it. If all I wanted was to fuck you, I wouldn’t still be on the phone with you right now. I am too busy of a man to make that much of an effort just to get a good lay.”
She made a soft noise.
He laughed.
“Listen,” he said, sighing, “I know you haven’t dated since ... well, in a while, and we didn’t exactly go over the fine details here, but just know no matter what, it’s all on you. Slow down, speed up ... tell me to fuck off; that’s all on you, I promise.”
“William told me something similar when we first started dating, although that was mostly because I was young, having fun, and didn’t know if I wanted to be serious with someone. Entirely different reasons, I guess, but basically the same sentiment.”
“Smart man, then.”
“That’s how you reply to me bringing him up?”
“Why not? How did you two meet, anyway?”
Cella dragged in a quick breath, and then laughed lightly. “He uh, was helping to work on my brother’s case after John got arrested and was looking at ten or more years in prison. I still felt some kind of way about my brother at that time—long story, let’s not bother, I’m over it—and I said something to the effect of should leave him there. William had come to my parents’ house for a dinner, so he was being the polite, respectful man he needed to be. But that must have just rubbed him the wrong way because he looked at me, cocked a brow, and replied except that’s not my job.”
Marcus hummed under his breath, leaning back in the office chair as he asked, “And what happened after that?”
“I thought I would hate him.”
“But you didn’t.”
“He was a hard man to hate.”
Silence stretched on between the two, but Marcus didn’t mind. He took in all she had told him, and felt like ... well, what a privilege it was for him to be told something that personal about her life and a man she had fallen in love with.
“Thank you,” he finally said.
“For what?”
“Telling me a little about him. He’s someone you love. Not loved, you see ... I understand that, and so of course, he’s going to be on your mind. I wouldn’t expect anything different, and I want to know about all the things you love, Cella. The important things, and the stuff you think is nothing at all.”
“Are you sure?”
“Why not?”
“Does it make you feel like you barely know me?”
“No,” he answered honestly, “it makes me feel like there’s so much more to learn. And that ... well, I look forward to that, tesoro.”
• • •
Considering the fact that Marcus’s earlier conversation with Cella ended on a good note, and he had managed to stay on top of all his tasks despite how they seemed to snowball on him at the worst of times, he felt pretty fucking good about his day.
Maybe that was why he went into yet another meeting with the biker gang feeling on top of the world when he should have been laser-focused on getting those assholes to back the hell off any and all Guzzi business. Although this time he was lucky enough to get a sit down with the actual president of the club and not just the man’s right hand.
It was very possible, because of his good mood and all, that Marcus was willing to offer yet another peaceful solution to the bikers instead of just finishing the job. Besides, he knew for certain it wouldn’t look good on him to go into taking over the family as the official boss when it was the time to do so while being in an active war with another organization, but especially one that was as close to them as the Quebec Riders.
As the acting boss ... he needed to show he could handle issues like these without first defaulting to the worst possible scenario before trying everything and anything else. He didn’t need more judgment and opinions chasing his status in his famiglia than what he already had.
A boss that sat in his seat during chaos was doomed to have that same chaos follow him throughout his reign. Or, that’s what he’d always been told.
Marcus worried it was the truth.
“Listen, Guzzi—”
“This disrespect again,” Marcus murmured from his position across the table from the biker gang’s president. “I expected it from your vice president the last time I had the unfortunate displeasure of discussing these problems with him, but I assure you I won’t sit here and let you do the same shit, Junior. You don’t demand things from me—you discuss them respectfully, or I will see myself out with the rest of my men. Is that clear?”
“Just who do you think you—”
Marcus turned his head to the side, catching his brother’s gaze as he smiled tightly at Chris. “Who asked for this meeting?”
“The Riders,” his brother replied easily.
“Yes, they did.”
Chris nodded, but otherwise, said nothing more from his position against the far wall. One of six men Marcus brought along to attend this meeting with the gang to handle the little problem of them burning a fucking warehouse. Thing was, Chris, like the rest of the Guzzi men in attendance here, didn’t need to be
told how to act. He just fucking knew.
Marcus went as far as having this meeting in a place the bikers chose, although his men arrived first to the rundown strip club, did a walk-through, and checked for any possible issues that might have been planted by the assholes from Quebec.
Like a trap.
There were none.
So, what did these assholes really want from him?
“I’ve made myself perfectly clear,” Marcus said, turning his attention back to the man sitting at the table with him. “We’re not doing business with your people or organization. That’s not how the Guzzis work, and we’re not going to change our practices simply because you demand it.”
He crossed his arms over his chest, continuing on with, “It doesn’t matter where our farm is located, or what business we’re doing with the farm, you’re not owed anything because of territory. And if you want to really get into those semantics, it will take all of a week for the Guzzis to take over what remains of your very small territory, anyway. Would you like to continue this discussion as we are, or take the way out I’ve given you? At least that way, you go back to doing your business, and we leave you alone. Otherwise ... it won’t end the same, I assure you.”
“You talk about respect, Guzzi, but you forget that’s a two-way street in this life. You expect respect, but you’re not willing to give it back. See, I know how fuckers like you work. You ... Italians. If someone were to go onto your territory and make themselves a nice little spot to work, you’d be the first asshole in line to make them pay what was due to you. Are you telling me I’m wrong?”
No.
He wasn’t.
That changed nothing.
“Do you know when people like me are willing to sit down and allow people like you a say about business or money?” Marcus asked.
“No, but I’m sure you plan to tell me.”
“Well, oui, otherwise, how will you learn your place?”
“My pla—”
“Yes, your place. Because you see, the Guzzis didn’t just become who we are overnight. We didn’t turn around and suddenly be this massive organization with a reach that crosses not only this country, but other countries as well. And you think, with your thirty club members, your little dealings in pills, and whatever else you make your paltry money in that somehow allows you a seat at our table. And you could not be more wrong. You are not nearly big enough to cause me real concern, and so I won’t allow you to think you do, either. That’s not how this works between us.”
Like his vice president, this man kept his head shaved which only made his double chin and large size all the more apparent. He hadn’t bothered to throw anything on except for a pair of jeans, combat boots he laced haphazardly, and the leather vest with his obvious patches sewn on with more care than he even took to manage his overgrowing beard.
Oh, they wanted a name in the criminal world, to be sure.
Marcus would not be giving them one, however.
“You burned our warehouse,” Marcus continued, not even bothering to allow the man the chance to speak. “And this is the last warning you are going to get from me—we don’t intend, today or tomorrow or ever, to do business with you or your people. There is nothing you could do that will allow you a seat at my table. Every step you make after this one, however, will put another nail in your coffin. Do what you will with that, Junior. We’re done here. Consider yourself lucky I even allowed you this second meeting, and the only reason I did that was so that boss to boss, we could have a conversation. But now it’s finished.”
And he was over it.
Marcus stood from the table, not the least bit interested in the strippers working the poles or the scantily clad women walking around the club to serve the patrons. He came here for business, and his pleasure wouldn’t be found in a place like this. Turning away from the table, he hoped everything would be crystal clear between the Guzzis and the Quebec chapter of the Riders, but he couldn’t be sure.
“That’s what it is, then?” the man still sitting at the table asked. “You think you’re better than us?”
Marcus scoffed, turning around just enough to look at the man. “There’s no thinking in this equation. It’s a matter of facts and standing here.”
“I find that ... offensive, Marcus.”
“So, be offended. That’s not my problem. As long as you and your hurt feelings stay the fuck away from the Guzzi business, then I don’t care what you feel about it.”
“Or maybe you just need a lesson in humility, hmm?”
Marcus felt the presence of his men closing in around him. After all, their boss had moved from the table, and so they had to act accordingly. Still, he stared down the man at the table, unwilling to move.
“Is that a threat?” he asked the president of the gang. “Because if we’re going to start throwing around threats, I promise mine will be something worth listening to.”
Junior smiled back, cold and tight. “Have a nice day, Marcus.”
The asshole would pay for that one.
Marcus didn’t say another word or give away a single emotion about Junior’s parting words, the meeting itself, or otherwise as he left the club. That wasn’t how a boss should behave, and every lesson he’d ever learned from watching his father while he grew up came down to moments like these. Not only when you were on display for your enemy, but to your own men, as well. It never ended well for a boss who showed weakness, even if that weakness meant something emotional like anger.
His men rushed to leave the club before him, and then gathered fast around him, making a protective wall from not only any fool with a gun who might be waiting outside, but also from the unlikely event their meeting had been recorded by police officials seeing as how the mafia was always on their radar.
Marcus still said nothing until he slipped into the passenger side of the car that quickly pulled up, his other brother who had come to this meeting, Bene, in the driver’s seat. Chris slipped into the back, the windows tinted so darkly and the exchange so fast that it would appear like Marcus might be sitting in the rear.
They took no chances.
They couldn’t being who they were.
And it never failed to amaze him how his own brothers would protect him above even their selves, but so was their life. It was who they were raised to be.
“Send him a message,” Marcus said as the car pulled away, and he allowed his first show of emotions in private with his brothers. The only men in his life, next to his two other brothers that lived in another country now, and his father, whom he trusted enough to show that weakness. “I want a fucking message sent to him. Otherwise, we’ll look weak to our men for not at least making sure they understood their disrespect. And to those Quebec fucks,” he uttered, teeth clenching like his jaw, “if we don’t answer back with something, they will still see us as a target. So, send them the fucking message they all want so badly, but then we’re done with them.”
Chris opened his mouth when he leaned between the front seats of the Mercedes SUV as though he were going to say something, but Marcus held up a hand and added, “Make sure it fucking hurts them where it will count. Cut the head off the fucking snake, for all I give a damn, but don’t forget I want them to really learn from this.”
Verbal confirmation came from his brothers.
Marcus turned to watch the buildings pass them by as they headed further east. His reflection on the glass caught the glimmering lights overhead on the street, the dark sky painted a bright black with scattered splashes from the stars.
“You’re doing fine,” Bene said beside him, “you know that, don’t you? You’re doing exactly what Dad taught you to do, Marcus.”
“Did I ask?”
“No, but—”
“Then, don’t talk.”
Chris made a grunt behind them. “They really pissed you off, yeah?”
Marcus sighed, shaking his head. “Yeah ... the fucking disrespect of them, you know?”
“Yeah, man.”
“We know,” Bene echoed.
8.
“Do, do, do, do, do, dodo! Dance!”
“How many times are you gonna sing that song, kid?”
“Fifty more times!”
“Perfect.”
Cella smiled from her spot behind the desk in her Rochester office at the conversation happening outside in the hallway. Sometimes, for whatever reason, but usually work, when she was unable to pick her daughter from pre-K or daycare—when she attended—then one of the trusted Marcello drivers made the trip to Rochester to do just that.
Today, it had been one of her brother’s men because apparently, John hadn’t minded allowing Cella to call on one of his enforcer’s for the day, and it was just her luck that he was available to pick Tiffany up from pre-K. The guy was one of the only people that Tiffany preferred over others when it couldn’t be her mother there to pick her up. She’d made friends with the man—who looked better suited on the defense line of a football team—during her movie night sleepovers at her uncle’s place.
Soon, her daughter darted through the doorway of Cella’s opened office wearing the sky-blue leggings that didn’t match the green shirt and pink shoes she’d picked out that morning. Five was a cute age for kids—or maybe it was just girls. Tiffany was determined every single morning to pick out her own clothes, and sit next to the mirror to do her hair and pretend like she was putting on makeup the same way her mother did.
Yeah, Cella could have put her foot down and made her kid wear clothes that matched, or even straightened her messy pony, but where was the fun in that? How would Tiffany ever learn to be independent and happy with herself when someone else was always trying to change something to make it better?
So, she let her kid pick out her outfits.
Unmatched colors and all.
“Hey, Ma!”
Tiffany’s bright smile and twinkling eyes greeted her as the enforcer came to stand in the doorway, too. Pushing her chair away from the desk slightly, it allowed her daughter the chance to slip in behind to give her mother a hug.