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“We can’t. I’m sorry.” My thumb traces his lips and then I slip quickly out of his grasp and through the door pulling it closed behind me. Without looking back at him, I run up the stairs to my apartment and lock myself inside. Once in my apartment, I quickly move to the security monitor and watch Marco, still standing there, his head bowed between his shoulders, his arms stretched out and leaning on the door.
He stands there for a few moments, then sighs. He lifts his head and looks straight at the camera and says, “I’m not giving up on you, Frankie. You’re mine.” Then he pushes away from the door and disappears down the street.
I slump on the sofa, my heart broken, my nerves frayed, and my eyes wet as I begin my second week of lockdown, knowing that nothing will ever be able to repair the crack in my heart at the loss of Marco.
20
Marco
I walk swiftly back to my place with a mix of emotions. I am frustrated, concerned, and angry. I am used to getting the things I want, and the fact that I can’t make that happen with Frankie is eating me up inside. I want that woman so goddamn much, why can’t I make it happen?
I am a melting pot of nearly every emotion you could think of right now, and I reach my apartment in record time. I slam the front door shut on my way inside and strut straight to my kitchen, yanking open the fridge door to grab a bottle of water. I’m pissed. I’m pissed because Frankie is shutting me out. I’m pissed because I want to be with her and I know she wants to be with me, and for some fucking unknown reason that can’t happen.
Slamming the fridge door, I open the bottle of water and take a gulp. It is then that I realize that Prince is not jumping on me or running around barking like he usually is. I turn to face the living room to start to look for him, but then I stop dead in my tracks and blood drains from my body.
Sebastian Romano is standing in my fucking living room looking directly at me. He is alone, his hands firmly in his pockets, standing as still as a statue, watching me, assessing me. His eyes are black and piercing and extremely menacing. He looks dangerous, psychotic even. He is wearing a crisp fitted black suit and white shirt, unbuttoned at the top and has a hint of a tattoo creeping up his neck. I can’t make out the design, but it looks fierce. His hair is jet black, and slicked back, his skin tanned, features dark, and he doesn’t move an inch, apart from the slight flair of his nostrils and clench of his jaw as his eyes look directly at me.
“What the fuck?” I ask angrily because how the fuck did he get into my secure apartment and what the fuck is he doing here.
He raises an eyebrow, apparently surprised that someone would talk to him like that and his lips turn up in a smirk. One of his arms moves from his pocket, coming up to scrub his jaw in a gesture that is showing me he is thinking about something, like he is mulling something over. But he still doesn’t say anything. I place my water bottle on the kitchen bench and he takes a few steps closer to me. I tense slightly because I still don’t know what the fuck he is doing in my place, and I don’t know what his connection to Frankie is.
“Marco Marshall. 29 years old, born and raised in Boston, son of Margaret and Tony and younger brother of Shaun.” He starts reeling off the information from my Wikipedia page, and I continue to look at him. I know he is one of the most dangerous people in the country but right now, he better get to the point because I am losing my patience.
He continues, “Named Boston’s most eligible bachelor three years in a row, top ten richest family in the United States, and the man who is currently fucking my little sister.”
My breath catches in my throat. Did he just say sister? My face must have a look of surprise because he stops walking toward me and his head tilts. He studies me again, his eyes piercing mine, but I don’t back down. I stand tall, strong, and I look right back at him, straight in his eyes.
He continues to walk toward me until we are mere inches away from each other. Both of us are tall, so we are eye to eye and our builds are similar. If this turns into a fist fight then I might have a chance. Although who am I kidding, he most likely kills people before he even has his breakfast each day, so I am probably a dead man walking right now. His smile returns, a little wider than before, his eyes sparkle a little too. He is enjoying this.
“Well, fuck me, you got some balls, Marshall. No wonder you caught her eye.” He speaks in a manner that is a little more, ‘we might be good friends’ than it is ‘I am about to kill you motherfucker’, and I let out the breath I have been holding.
He takes another step toward me, and now he is right up in my personal space, but I still do not move. He has a perfect shot now. If he is carrying, which no doubt he is, and wants me dead, then now is the time that it is going to happen, but I don’t back down. I don’t even know this guy apart from the snippets I got from Jake and Stephen last night, and while he is obviously not to be messed with, he is Frankie's brother, so I want to show respect because I am not letting her go, she is mine.
“You need to stay the fuck away from Francesca, okay my friend,” he says in a strong Italian accent that is half a growl, half a whisper and is as intimidating as fuck. Francesca, I hadn’t realized that was Frankie's full name, but it is such a beautiful name for my beautiful woman. I keep my face schooled, and my eyes remain on him.
“Or what?” I ask in return, pretty sure that his gun is going to come out now and wondering why I can’t just keep my mouth shut.
“Or she will die,” he says with even more menace, and there is pure evil in his eyes. The smile has gone, and he means business. His nostrils flair, and he lifts his chin in a silent threat that says, ‘ask me again motherfucker and see what happens’. While he is scary as fuck, I want to protect Frankie.
“Are you going to hurt her?”
If looks could kill, I would be a mere splat on his shoe right about now. Clearly, no one has ever spoken back to this guy in the manner in which I continue to do this morning. He seems to flick between amusement because he can’t believe I have the balls to keep talking back to him and anger at being spoken back to.
“It’s not me you need to worry about. Francesca is my world, she is my everything, and I will protect her with everything I have. I will protect her with my life,” he states, trying to impress upon me the importance she has in his life.
“As will I,” I say back to him and mean it. I continue to look directly at him in my solid stance, not stepping back from him and not backing down in our war of words. The testosterone is thick, we are battling it out together, right here, one on one, in my kitchen.
“You will be the one that kills her. They will find her and it will be because of you. You will have blood on your hands and then I will make you pay. I am watching you.” He pushes past me, walking to my front door and opening it.
Before he steps through, he looks back at me. “Oh,” he says casually like we are old friends, “stay away from the bar too. Uncle Alf will slit your throat if you step in there again after last night's debacle.” He then turns, walks through the door and shuts it slowly behind him.
I take a few breaths and gather my thoughts. My body is humming from a mix of anger that Sebastian thinks he can come into my house and tell me what to do, and nervous energy because he is a scary motherfucker, and I would rather be on his good side than his bad. Rubbing my face, I try to go through the conversation while it is fresh in my mind. I grab a notepad and pen and write it down, knowing that Jake will want all the details.
As I go through everything for the third time, my pulse starts to settle down and my heart rate returns to normal. Then I realize again just how quiet it is.
I go looking for Prince because it is really odd that he isn’t barking—especially since Sebastian was just here. I check each room and can’t find him. Starting to become concerned, I frantically run through the entire house until I spot him on the terrace. Opening the sliding glass door, I look down to see Prince on the floor, lying on his side, his head stuck in a tub of ice-cream.
“What the hell?” I say out loud to myself, confused, because I don’t even have ice-cream in the house. I look and see that the tub of Ben and Jerry’s Netflix and Chill’d ice cream is now empty. Prince is having a great time with his nose buried deep into the tub, trying desperately to lick every last drop and that’s when it hits me. Stephen was right. Sebastian has known about me from the moment I ran into Frankie. The day at the park where Prince ate her ice-cream. Her Ben and Jerry’s Netflix and Chill’d ice cream.
