Page 4 of Intrigue

But the worst thing I ever did? Let her go.

Nothing I’ve ever done compares to the madness she stirs in me. Night after night, I drown in a darkness of my own making, a void that echoes with her name. Her absence gnaws at my sanity, an unhealed wound I can’t cauterize.

Now, I watch from the rooftop, the city stretching beneath me in hues of fading dusk. Florence feels smaller somehow, as if closing in on me with every breath. I see her stepping off that train, and my chest constricts. I’m still haunted by the ghost of our shared past. I let her go because it was the right thing to do, or at least that’s what I tell myself in sleepless nights. But the truth? I was a coward, afraid to confront the depth of my own feelings.

Selene Marconi returns, utterly unaware of how her mere presence throttles my sanity. Five years. Five fucking years of believing I could survive the loss of her. Five years since I let her think I was a monster, since I crushed her spirit with words harsh enough to scar.

The truth is worse than she’ll ever know. I ripped myself apart for her. Every kill was an attempt to silence the haunting echo of her laughter, her touch, her breathless whispers against my skin. It never worked.

The moment I walked into the Marconi house after my father’s death and saw her standing at the top of those stairs, watching me with eyes that pierced straight through my soul, I knew I’d let her ruin me. And fuck if I didn’t want it. From the first second, my obsession was born, twisted and burning through my veins.

I welcomed it—craved it, even—because right then, with her eyes branding me from above, I knew in my bones she was worth every ounce of chaos I would unleash to claim her.

I made a silent vow that day: I’d shield her from every storm, every threat, every horror dredged from the darkest corners of hell that this world conjures. I’d protect her, even if I had to drown in blood to do it. Even if it meant slicing pieces from my own heart to keep her safe.

She steps off the train below, Cassian Varela’s arm around her waist, her eyes bright with hope, oblivious to the predator stalking her from above. How dare she be with someone so fucking weak, someone who’d never bleed for her like I would?

I shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be tormenting myself, but obsession doesn’t know reason. My boots scrape tiles as I pace the rooftop, eyes never leaving her form.

Her jet-black hair catches in the wind as she walks with that soft-handed artist who doesn’t deserve to breathe near her. He looks like he’s never lifted anything heavier than a paintbrush in his life. His arm loops her waist, and the glint of that ginormous ring on her finger twists the metaphorical knife lodged in my ribs. Probably fake. No way he can afford a rock that size and still dress like an unpaid intern at a museum.

I watch Cassian touch her, gentle, careful, and my blood boils. I’ll rip him apart piece by piece, strip him of everything until Selene sees just how pathetic he truly is. I’ll break him, break them both.

Dropping from the roof, I land heavily, the force jarring through my bones. I head to my business for the day, the image of her haunting every step I take to the warehouse.

I’m the Marconi underboss now but seeing her reignites the rot I’ve been running from. I let her go to keep her alive, took the blame when she knifed that rival’s son, kept Don Marconi’s wrath off her neck. It cost me everything. Nights after, I’d wake choking on her name, my fists bloody from smashing whatever broke first—mirrors, walls, men dumb enough to cross me.

She was my fire, and without her, I’m just ash pretending to burn.

I kick the door open, wood slamming violently against the wall as I step into the dim, smoke-filled meeting room. Cigar smoke curls thickly, creating ghostly shapes around the leather chairs where five of Don Marconi’s men—men I now control—sit hunched over maps and ledgers. Their shoulders snap tight, spines rigid, tension palpable the moment they sense my presence.

“You’re late and so is this week's shipment,” Gino says, tapping a pencil on the table, his pinched face twisted with smug satisfaction. Ever since Don promoted him to my second, he’s believed himself untouchable, confident he’ll outlast me one day. Idiot.

Truth is, things between me and Don haven’t been right since she left. Not that he ever knew about me and Selene’s little secret. But I’ve despised him from the start, hated the way his cruel and impossible expectations made Selene vulnerable enough to fall prey to a monster like me.

I never stepped out of line. At least not openly. Not because I feared him, but because openly defying a man of his rank was a death sentence. So, I bided my time, using his power and influence to build my own, gathering strength till it was time to strike. Selene complicated things and I couldn’t risk himdiscovering us and using her as leverage. Letting her go was necessary, even if it nearly destroyed me.

I thought I had more time, though. Believed she would stay gone. And that when I was finally ready, when I’d conquered everything I wanted, I’d tear apart the earth itself searching for her, indifferent to whoever might’ve gotten attached to her along the way. She was always mine. She will always belong to me.

Her return forces my hand, accelerating plans that had been slowly, meticulously unfolding. It might mean more chaos, more violence but what’s a little more blood if, at the end of the day, she ends up exactly where she belongs? By my side.

“Turns out it was Moretti’s crew stalling at the docks, who would've thought,” Gino continues, a sly smile tugging at his lips like he thinks he’s caught something I’ve overlooked.

My patience snaps. I’m done playing nice.

I bring my hands onto the table, leaning in close enough to watch the blood drain from his face. “You only breathe because I allow it, Gino. Remember that the next time you open your mouth.” My voice is soft. “Speak to me without respect again, and I’ll carve you a smile wide enough to silence your whining forever. Move the shipment tonight.”

He swallows audibly, the pencil frozen in his fingers. “It’ll be done, Sandro.”

I jab a finger toward Bianchi, the wiry bastard with the scar splitting his eyebrow. I think I gave him that, I just don’t remember the specifics of the why. “You’re on the trucks. Fuck it up, and I’ll make you wish for death.”

“Got it,” he blurts out, nodding frantically, eager to please me, desperate to survive.

My eyes cut through the rest of them, each man shrinking back beneath the threat implicit in my stare. “Anyone else want to waste my time?”

They shake their heads, quickly averting their eyes. I have them collared, chained by their fear. I have the power. The thrill of breaking men until they grovel—it's all that’s kept my sanity tethered. It’s fucking intoxicating, feeling untouchable, knowing their lives hang on my every whim.

I stride out and cut through the warehouse to the back. There’s a club here, a grimy little pit where the boys unwind. Red lights shine through the windows and bass thumps low. I need something to drown her out—her face, her laugh, that stupid ring on her finger.