February 26, 1986 — Milan, Italy
One month.
It had been one damn month since that night in Moscow, and he could still feel the sharp echo of gunfire in his head, like a buzz lodged deep in his bones. A full month of hysterical headlines, speculative columns, reports riddled with ignorance… and an endless parade of journalists hell-bent on mixing mafias, names, and theories with the clumsy recklessness of someone playing with fire while holding a can of gasoline.
"Terrorist attack?"
"European cartel interference?"
"Connection to the Italian mafias?"
"The heirs of Il Corvo at the center of a covert war?"
Marco slapped one of those newspapers shut and let it fall to the floor without bothering to read further. He was alone in the private suite of an exclusive Milan hotel, owned by one of those old allies his father had cultivated during the glory years. Leonardo, his older brother, had reserved the place for what everyone insisted on calling the event of the month: the official announcement of his engagement to Adriana Ferreti.
Marco had heard that phrase far too many times lately. And it still tasted like rusted iron.
With the landline receiver pressed between his fingers, he was on the phone with Sergio Conde, one of the organization's key partners. On the other end, Sergio's voice sounded composed, as always. Polished. Impeccable. But Marco knew that tone—he could read the blade hidden in every word. That edge that didn't say I'm furious, but made it crystal clear with every syllable.
— The organization's presence in the damn media will be temporary — Marco said, pacing slowly across the beige carpet, already dressed in his formal suit —. There's no real evidence. No one's going to dare accuse us directly. This will blow over on its own.
— It's not just the media, Marco — Sergio replied after a deliberate pause —. The U.S. agencies are watching, and the fact that you and Andrea were both present at that dinner right before the attack… was a fucking mistake.
Marco froze. Closed his eyes. The memory cut across his chest like lightning.
— Andrea's fault.
A heavy sigh came through the line. Slow. Tired.
— Andrea had nothing to do with it. The investigations are pointing to groups trying to take out Senator Ivanovich over internal matters. Andrea would never risk his reputation like that. Especially not at an international event.
Marco rolled his eyes, his expression bitter.
— Of course. SaintFerreti. Everyone loves him.
— This isn't about love, Marco — Sergio snapped, his voice shifting slightly —. It's about control. About intelligence. And you've got it—until he enters the equation. Then you lose it.
Marco's jaw clenched instantly. Under the chandelier, his features were a sculpture of restraint.
— Doesn't matter. This will die down. There's nothing solid to keep the heat on us. In a few weeks, we'll be in Monaco with the new partners. Everything's on track. Nothing's fallen apart.
— That's what I want to hear. But get a grip. You're a Bianchi. An alpha. Don't let that obsession with Andrea cost you your focus. You're Marco Bianchi. Don't forget that.
Marco didn't answer. He just nodded in silence and hung up with a crisp click. The phone settled into its carved crystal base, as if even the silence had weight there.
At that moment, the door opened with a soft knock.
— Are you ready yet? — asked Ann.
She walked in with that calm, graceful stride of hers, like the world couldn't touch her. The black dress draped elegantly over her slender figure. Her loose hair contrasted with her ice-blue eyes— the same ones Marco and Leonardo carried as family inheritance.
Marco stood up and kissed her hand with the delicacy of someone who knew the rules.
— Yes. Though I doubt anyone can really be ready for this.
— Head down to the garden. Everyone's already there.
The Ferretis arrived ten minutes ago.
Marco exhaled slowly. He turned toward the mirror in the sitting room. The black suit fit like a second skin—elegant to the point of cruelty. Only the fine scar on his right cheek clashed with the perfection. A reminder carved into flesh that Moscow had been real.
Sergio's right, he thought.
Andrea Ferreti is the one who needs to remember who I am. And I'll make sure of it. I'll carve it into his bones if I have to.
— You look particularly good today — Ann said, stepping closer to adjust his collar with that older-sister precision that always bordered on insufferable —. Are you seeing some omega?
Marco lowered his gaze, half smiling.
— I don't have time for relationships.
— Typical. — Ann smiled too, giving him a light tap on the shoulder —. And Ron?
— Better. Though his arm's still messed up. I gave him a few days off.
— Good. He earned them.
Marco offered her his arm. She took it with grace. But before they stepped through the door, she stopped. She looked him straight in the eye. There was something different in her gaze—something serious, that left no room for interpretation.
— Marco… don't ruin this for Leonardo.
Today is important. For him. For Adriana… for all of us.
Marco held her gaze without saying a word.
It was a special day.
But special doesn't erase personal.
And tonight, Andrea Ferreti would be close.
Too close.
——
The hotel garden, decorated with almost offensive precision, smelled of white roses, expensive wine, and unspoken pacts. Beneath a canopy of warm lights and expertly placed garlands, the most powerful families of northern Italy had gathered. Conversations floated between crystal glasses, rehearsed smiles, and silences as calculated as they were lethal. This wasn't a party. It was a battlefield dressed up as a celebration. A place where a single gesture could seal an alliance… or declare war.
Marco crossed that space with Ann on his arm, every step perfectly measured. He wasn't walking—he was calculating. His gaze slid over the faces with surgical coldness: names, threats, potential allies. He recognized everything. And said nothing.
Ann guided him toward the family. Leonardo was already there, standing beside AdrianaFerreti. His fiancée. And by now, much more than that. The pale dress she wore hugged her figure with elegance, but it was useless to hide it: the rounded belly rested plainly under her crossed hands.
Marco offered a faint smile when he saw her.
She was pregnant.
And though his hatred for the Ferretis was as ancient as it was visceral, there was something in that belly that disarmed him. Not tenderness, not entirely. Something more primal. A poisoned kind of anticipation. His blood would run through those veins. His lineage. The Bianchi name rising above the Ferreti. Maybe blue eyes. Maybe black hair. Born pride. Pure pride.
— He's growing fast — Ann said softly, her smile calm as she looked at Adriana.
Then that voice.
Always precise. Always laced with something more.
— He'll be a big, healthy boy. Like his father.
Andrea.
Marco didn't need to see him to know he was close. His body reacted first. The air shifted. A deeper heartbeat. A visceral impulse that tensed his neck. And then, the inevitable.
Mint.
Not the dominant scent of the garden, but the only one that seemed to pierce through his lungs. That cursed perfume—clean and sharp—that Andrea left behind like the world belonged to him.
Ann felt him stiffen. She gave his arm a light tap, just enough to keep him moving.
— Come on, Marco — she murmured, in that tone she used when she wanted to avoid a scene —. Smile. No one's ruining Leonardo's day.
Marco took a deep breath. Forced the smile. Turned around.
And there they were.
The Ferretis.
three of them.
Damián and Alessandro. The twins. Tall, perfectly upright, like statues sculpted in burned gold. Alphas. Nearly identical faces. Light brown hair, golden skin, eyes that gleamed like old coins. If Marco didn't know them by heart, he'd swear they were an illusion. Everything about them was measured, synchronized, designed to intimidate.
And in the center, of course—Andrea.
Dressed in a deep navy suit that emphasized the width of his shoulders and that effortlessly regal posture. His hair was slightly tousled, like he'd just run his fingers through it without care. His golden eyes locked onto Marco's, as if he'd sensed him long before he appeared.
Ann, true to her role as peacemaker, stepped forward with grace, extending her hand to the twins with a diplomatic smile.
— Signori Ferreti.
They nodded, one after the other, with the mechanical precision of blue-blooded soldiers.
Andrea stepped forward. Took Ann's hand with calculated delicacy and kissed it softly.
— The beauty of the Bianchi family remains legendary.
Velvet-wrapped venom.
Ann laughed lightly.
— And you still refuse to give yourselves credit.
Marco stood still. His face a mask of stone. He greeted the twins with a brief, formal nod.
— Alessandro. Damián.
They returned the gesture with perfect neutrality. Not a single extra word. Not a single muscle out of place. They were guardians. Bastions. And they made no effort to hide it.
Andrea looked at him at last.
— Marco.
His voice was a brushstroke. A provocation disguised as courtesy.
Marco held his gaze for a moment. He didn't respond. But his eyes did. They followed him—unintentionally—straight to his right cheek.
The scar.
Thememory.
Andrea was watching him too. And his gaze landed on that same spot. On the mark. Memory carved into skin.
Marco felt the faintest twitch in the corner of his lip. He stopped it. Didn't move another muscle. But something inside him burned—slow and deep.
— Where's Lorenzo? — he asked, without real interest. Just to cut through the lead-thick silence.
— In Rome. His omega gave birth a few days ago — Andrea replied, with that half-smile that always said more than it should.
Marco nodded. That was it. Exchange complete. Coldness maintained. All within the socially acceptable margins.
But the air between them…
…was a different story.
Tense. Alive. Sharp. Like a wire drawn tight across a throat.
Then, a few steps away, Adriana's voice rose.
— Andrea! Damián! Alessandro! Come, I want to show you something.
The three of them turned. Andrea gave Marco one last look. Just the corner of his mouth. A flicker of a gesture.
And he left.
Leaving behind that menthol scent—that perfume of war.
Of blood owed.
Marco exhaled through his nose.
It wasn't relief. It wasn't calm.
It was frustration.
Sergio had been right.
Andrea Ferreti had forgotten who Marco Bianchi was and Marco was going to remind him.
Step by step.
Look by look.
Until nothing was left.