Page 25 of Vicious Behaviors (The Next Vicious Generation #3)

Before Selene ever married her husband, Vincent, she had run away from the clutches of her father and the arranged marriage he had in place for her with none other than Big Sal’s only son, Pietro. Or so he led people to believe.

Rumor has it that Big Sal had a child from his mistress and sent both away to Sicily when she got pregnant. That child was Ciro LaSpina, and when he returned, he promised the Romano line nothing but vengeance and blood.

Those plans changed somewhat when he met a young Selene Bianchi, making her and his vengeance his only obsession. The man was so resolute in his obsession that he ruthlessly killed his own brother when he learned of the upcoming betrothal with Selene.

Afraid for her own life, Selene fled Chicago, never to be heard of again.

But Ciro found her in the end. He killed the man she had made a life with and brought her to Chicago to wage war with the new Capo dei Capi, Vincent Romano.

Ciro had leverage after all. He had Selene, who apparently Vincent had been in love with all his life…

and he had his firstborn, Jude Romano. The son that had been born out of wedlock and hidden away by Selene from Ciro for his own protection.

Details from the head-on collision after that are up to the discretion of who’s telling the story.

Some say that Ciro was going to kill them all by burning Selene’s childhood home to the ground.

Some say it was Selene herself who burned her home after murdering her own father, Ciro’s accomplice, in the coup.

But the variation of the story that has seemed to bring out the monster in Marcello is the one where people whisper behind closed doors.

That Selene seduced Ciro into her bed, and when his guard was down, she killed him so she could be with her true love, Vincent.

Hence the nickname, Red Queen. Whatever she touched, rivers of blood soon followed.

I’ve seen Marcello lunch with his mother more times than I can count.

I know the deep love and affection he has for her.

When Aldo insinuated that Marcello wasn’t Vincent’s legitimate son, he did so at his own peril.

Because in doing so, he insinuated that his mother was nothing more than a whore, who bedded her enemies just to get her way.

That insult is something Marcello would never let pass. Aldo is as good as dead.

I can’t watch this.

As I’m about to turn around to prevent witnessing a murder and blow my cover in the process, something stops me—his eyes.

That cold, piercing stare pins me in place like a butterfly under glass, daring me to move a muscle.

My breath catches as my heart begins to drum loudly in my chest, but I don’t move. Not even an inch.

The fight has already begun, Aldo swinging left to right and finding nothing but air. Marcello doesn’t even try to hit him back. He just dodges each hit with ease, as if playing a twisted game of cat and mouse.

However, this isn’t just some alley cat we’re talking about. This is a lion. A predator. And right now, he’s playing with his prey while staring directly at me.

My pulse pounds in my ears as the dark hue of his eyes keeps me hostage. I can’t think. I can barely breathe. Not when he smiles at me like that… just a curl at the corner of his lips.

Then he does the most peculiar thing of all. He winks at me right before delivering a knockout punch that sends his opponent crashing to the mat, Aldo’s front teeth landing somewhere beside him.

I blink, once, twice, clearing my vision as Marcello steps over the unconscious man as if he were nothing.

As if he no longer existed in his world.

He then pulls down the ropes and steps out of the ring.

He grabs a towel and slings it around his neck, wiping the nonexistent bead of sweat from his brow, and then slowly, deliberately, walks in my direction, stopping when he reaches me.

“Follow me.” The words are low, but still very commanding.

Maybe I’m just as foolish as Aldo, because I do as he says and follow him. Even when he walks straight into the men’s locker room. Even when he heads toward the showers. Even when he discards his towel at a stall and turns on the shower.

I shouldn’t be here. I really shouldn’t fucking be here. But here I am. Waiting for Marcello to acknowledge me, just as Aldo waited to be acknowledged by him. But unlike Aldo, I won’t bait him into conversation. He asked me to follow him, not the other way around.

It’s only when he drops his shorts that I avert my eyes.

“Getting shy on me now, Izzie?” he asks smugly, the taunt coming out crueler than I would have liked.

“Why am I here?” I ask, fixing my gaze on a white tile instead of the naked man in front of me.

“You’re the one who likes to watch me. So watch.”

My stubbornness has me turning to meet his gaze head-on. His eyes no longer carry that horrifying hue, fully replaced by nothing but blue summer skies. Still, there is defiance in them. A defiance that is daring me to take him all in. Every taut muscle, every deep ridge, and sculpted ab.

Marcello is not a man. He’s a weapon. And I’m the idiot standing in his way without armor.

He steps under the water like it’s nothing, like I’m not even here, and turns the knob hard. A blast of heat erupts from the showerhead, sending steam spiraling upward, curling around his frame like smoke around fire.

The first splash hits his shoulders, and he lets out a low sigh as the water spills down his chest, trailing over the cut lines of his pecs and dripping down his abs. Every bead traces a path along his body, catching on the sharp V at his hips, before vanishing below the waist.

I don’t dare let my eyes wander lower. My pulse is already rioting in my throat as it is.

Still, as if in a trance of his own making, I can’t look away as he runs a hand through his damp hair, pushing it back as water cascades down his forearms in rivulets.

Then his palm slides slowly over his neck, down his chest, wiping away the sweat from tonight’s excursion with a kind of reverence, like he’s washing off the battle, not just the grime.

I should look away. I know I should. So why don’t I?

Marcello’s muscles flex with every movement, and every swipe of his large, veined hand is purposeful… slow, as if he knew its effect on me. He tips his head back, letting the spray hit his face, his throat, his collarbone. His mouth parts, jaw tight, as though even he felt the weight of my gaze.

He’s making a show of it. And I’m the captive audience.

When he finally shuts off the water, the silence around us is deafening. Droplets run down his body, clinging to every inch of skin like they don’t want to leave. Then he steps out, not even bothering to towel off.

My breath stills as he stops inches away from me, and says in a low, serrated voice, “There. Is that enough? Is your curiosity finally quenched, or should I show you more?” I scowl, trying to swallow the lump rising in my throat.

“You look upset,” he says, tilting his head sideways, but there’s no humor in his tone.

Only ice. “Weren’t you the one who said that if I would rather we be enemies, that could be fun too?

” His gaze rakes over me like he’s trying to peel something back.

“Well then… I’m having fun. But it appears you are not. ”

Every word that leaves his mouth feels like a caress against my feverish skin, even when each syllable is designed to cut into me.

“Are you done?” I manage to say with a clenched jaw, even as my knees threaten to buckle under the weight of his stare.

My breath catches when he leans in, tucks an errant strand of my hair behind my ear, and whispers, “You tell me. Are we done?”

I don’t answer. I can’t. Not after that performance. And especially not with the way his heated gaze bores into mine. Instead, I turn my back on him and practically flee from the gym, heat crawling up my spine and shame blistering behind my ribs.

This was payback. Payback for intruding on his ice cream date with his younger sister. Payback for taking this job and changing the dynamics of his second home. Payback for coming into his life.

No, Marcello. We’re not done. Not in the slightest.

“You’re positive it was Kirill and Konstantin Petrov you saw Marcello talking to?” Haynes asks again, as if the answer would somehow change if he keeps pressing.

“Yes. I’m sure.”

“Any photos to back that up?”

“I was in his car with his sister most of the time. And when Kirill basically dragged her out of the car, they still had a clear line of sight on me. There was no way I could pull out my phone without blowing my cover.”

“Well, that’s disappointing,” he mutters, leaning back on the car seat, his expression twisting with mild annoyance.

“I’d heard rumors the Bratva had some kind of unspoken agreement with the Outfit, but nothing solid.

Not until now, that is.” He drums his fingers against the steering wheel in a pensive thought.

“Makes you wonder what the two syndicates are cooking up.”

“Does it matter?” I counter. “The Outfit still runs this city. The Bratva are, at best, a nuisance in Chicago.”

“They might be small fish here, but they’re making waves out west. Any intel is useful.”

“Still doesn’t help us with Father McDonagh’s disappearance,” I remind him.

“So you haven’t discovered anything that ties Romano to the priest yet?”

“Not so far, no,” I admit, “but I’m working on it.”

“How?” he asks, uncaring to hide his impatience with me.

How, Haynes? Oh, I don’t know… maybe by hiding in a shower stall with him as he ran his large hands all over his…