Page 27 of Vicious Behaviors (The Next Vicious Generation #3)

Isobel

The next morning, I reluctantly drag myself into work.

After what happened last night between Marcello and me, I’m not exactly thrilled to see him again.

But with daylight came clarity. And clarity reminded me that Marcello doesn’t do anything without a motive.

He wanted to scare me away. And wouldn’t you know it, it worked.

I am scared. But not for the reasons he thinks.

Watching the water rain down his body is an image I won’t forget anytime soon. And that’s the problem. How am I expected to take him down when just one look from him makes my body forget it’s supposed to be on the other side of this fight? Talk about being unprofessional.

So instead of pretending the incident didn’t affect me, I decide to spend the morning as far away from Marcello as humanly possible.

Not that he notices. Or at least, I don’t think he does.

He’s too busy lifting weights and punching bags to sweat out whatever demons crawl around in that beautiful, twisted mind of his.

Visceral reactions aside, I still have a job to do, and if I don’t bring something to Haynes next week, I’m sure I’ll never hear the end of it.

Something tells me that Haynes isn’t above pettiness.

If I don’t get solid proof tying Marcello to criminal activity, then I wouldn’t put it past Haynes to slap me with insubordination.

Or write me up for poor performance or incompetence.

Either is a guaranteed death sentence for any agent doing field work.

This means I need to start getting creative since apparently being in close proximity to Marcello makes me act… irrationally.

I need to shift my focus to other areas of his life that might lead me closer to the truth about Father McDonagh’s disappearance.

Two names immediately come to mind—Annamaria and Stella.

Aside from his mother, Marcello’s sisters seem to be his weak spot.

The three of them have a special bond, unlike the one he shares with his other siblings.

He’s different with them. Honest. This could mean that he might have confided in them about any past wrongdoings.

I’m just not sure how I’ll ever get close enough to Annamaria to earn her trust. The poor girl is constantly under some kind of protection—either at school, where the nuns and her twin brothers keep watch, or during that narrow window before she’s picked up and swept back under Marcello’s wing.

On weekends, she’s only ever seen at church with her family.

And on the rare occasions she’s allowed to do volunteer work, at least two bodyguards are always shadowing her every move.

That’s Annmaria’s whole sheltered world.

School, home, church, and the odd supervised outing.

That doesn’t leave me with many options to get close to her.

That leaves Stella. She isn’t the polar opposite of her younger sister, but close enough. She’s long been left to her own devices, free to do what she wants, when she wants. And after sparring with her myself, I understand why. Only a fool would try to control her.

She’s also extremely cunning and smart. She’s not as naive or trusting as Annamaria seems to be. And unlike her sister, she can sniff out a threat from a mile away. Yet somehow, I’ve stayed under her radar. She doesn’t suspect my ulterior motives in any way, which works in my favor.

In another life, we might’ve actually been friends since I enjoy being around her more than I should. I just hope she feels the same about me.

Having made up my mind, I pull out my phone and shoot Stella a message.

Me: Hey you! Have you thought about what I said re: your training?

I frown when she doesn’t answer immediately. I’m about to put my phone away when bubbles appear on my screen.

Stella: Who dis?

I let out a pent-up breath and laugh.

Me: It’s Izzie. Carmine gave me your number. I hope that’s okay.

Stella: It’s fine. But it’s too damn early to train. Need more sleep

I chuckle again.

If Marcello is the dawn, Stella is the dusk. He seems to run on a military schedule. Always up before the sun to train without fail. On the other hand, Stella doesn’t even pretend to be a morning person. And by the looks of it, my text probably woke her.

Me: How about tonight then? You still owe me a rematch.

Stella: Girl, you have a death wish. But I like it. Fine. I’ll be there at eight.

Me: Works for me. See you then.

I slide my phone into my pocket, a little smirk playing on my lips.

For the first time today, I feel like myself.

Confident. In control. But just as I move to greet a new client walking through the gym’s doors, the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

A flush of heat prickles across my skin, chased by goosebumps.

Someone’s watching me.

I don’t need to turn around to know whose dead eyes track my every move.

I know the feel of their heat by heart now.

Let him watch.

The rest of my day is… tricky. After my training sessions, I trail Marcello to the club he always visits in the mornings to start his day.

I was hoping he’d stick around long enough for me to catch up on schoolwork, maybe even chip away at my thesis, but no.

Today’s a Giovanni DeLuca day. Which means Marcello and his father’s consigliere will spend the rest of the morning driving across the city, meeting God knows who.

No sleazy bars or shady alleys for these two.

No. Their business takes place in penthouses and private lounges.

Swanky skyscrapers and government buildings.

They meet a diversity of people—hedge fund lawyers, politicians, judges.

People who wear power like cologne. In other words, I spend my day driving all over Chicago, snapping photos of Marcello and Giovanni as they fraternize with the so-called elite this city has to offer.

Through it all, my stomach knots every time he steps out of his car. Not from nerves but from the way he carries himself in these meetings. There’s something obscene about how effortlessly he wears power.

Gone are the gym shorts and casual sweats.

In their place, a suit clings to him as if it were hand-stitched to flawlessly fit every hard line and broad angle of his frame.

Midnight black, smooth as sin, with subtle charcoal pinstripes that catch the light just enough to whisper money.

The crisp, white shirt beneath is open at the collar—no tie, of course, because Marcello doesn’t need one to command attention.

The black winter coat hugs his shoulders perfectly, tailored to their span, the fabric stretching just enough when he moves.

His slacks fall clean over polished, Italian leather shoes, and even from a distance, he smells like dominance.

Marcello is elegance and danger wrapped in one devastating package. He’s the kind of man who can turn a street into a runway without even trying. And the worst part? That damn suit probably costs five times my rent.

Of course, as I sit in my car, taking picture after picture of his glorious face, the image of him under that stream of water, bare and unapologetic, still flickers across my mind.

It’s distracting. So much so that when Marcello is out of sight, my thoughts start drifting into dangerous territories, wondering what would’ve happened if I’d just let my gaze drop below his waist last night.

Inch by inch. Lower… Lower… Lower…

Argh! “Goddamn it, Izzie,” I mutter to myself. “Get it together, woman. You’ve seen a dick before.”

I have. Just… not his.

Thankfully, today is also the day he has lunch with Selene Romano, which means his attention will be solely focused on his mother for the next two hours.

These lunches are never eventful, which works well for me since I need a fucking breather from all things Marcello Romano.

Nevertheless, I park across the street from the restaurant and snap a few pictures of them sitting by the window.

After taking a few for surveillance purposes, I put my camera on the seat next to me and grab my school bag to get some work done.

As I’m about to pull the laptop out of my bag, someone interrupts me by knocking on the window.

“Miss?” a cop says, instructing me to lower the window.

I roll it down and give him my best non-suspicious smile. “Everything okay, officer?”

“We’ve had a complaint about paparazzi parked out here,” he says, eyes flicking to the binoculars and camera on my passenger seat. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

“This is a public street,” I say calmly. “I can park wherever I like. There’s no law against that.”

“Technically, you’re right,” he says, voice calm, “but the restaurant’s owner just bought the adjoining properties, and they’ve got no interest in loiterers.

Especially ones who’ve been sitting out here long enough to be noticed.

” He cocks his head. “So, unless you’re here to eat or shop, I’d rethink your parking spot. ”

I’m two seconds from flashing my badge and ending this nonsense when the restaurant door opens, and out walks Marcello, phone in hand, still wearing that three-piece suit that makes sin look like a religion.

My brows knit. Marcello never takes calls during lunch with his mother. Suspicion creeps up my spine and anchors in my chest.

Does he know? Has he known I’ve been tailing him this entire time? Does he suspect that I’m an undercover federal agent?

No. He can’t know. This has to be a coincidence. But if I flash my badge to this cop and he sees it from across the street, then he’ll definitely know for sure.

Fuckity-fuck-fuck-fuck!

“Miss, care to show me your license and registration?” the cop asks, holding out his hand.

“Of course, officer,” I grumble, grabbing my documents from the glove compartment.

He glances them over and nods. “Thank you. Everything seems to be in order. Now move the car or I’ll be forced to fine you for loitering.”