After what happened on the kitchen counter, I couldn't look Marco in the eye.
I sat at his dining table wearing his robe, picking at eggs he'd made while he read something on his phone. The silence was thick with everything we weren't saying. Twenty minutes ago, I'd been coming apart under his hands while my dead husband's photo watched. Now I was eating breakfast like nothing happened.
Nothing about this was normal.
"You're not eating," Marco said without looking up.
"I'm not hungry."
"You need to eat. You barely had dinner last night."
His casual concern threw me off. This was the same man who'd confessed to murder an hour ago, and now he worried about my appetite?
"I said I'm not hungry."
Marco put down his phone and really looked at me. "Victoria, you can't starve yourself just because you're upset."
"Upset?" I laughed, but it came out harsh. "You think I'm upset? You killed my husband and I'm supposed to be what—mildly annoyed?"
"You're supposed to adapt. Life goes on, whether David's in it or not."
The coldness made me want to throw something at him. Instead, I picked up my phone to distract myself, scrolling through messages I'd missed while my world fell apart.
Except my phone was acting weird.
Apps were opening by themselves. Messages kept disappearing before I could read them. My banking app wouldn't load at all—just showed an error message.
"Something's wrong with my phone," I said, frowning at the screen.
Marco glanced over, but he didn't look surprised. "What kind of wrong?"
"It's slow. Apps keep crashing." I tried my email again, but it just spun and spun. "Did you do something to it?"
"I upgraded the security. For your protection."
The casual way he said it made my blood freeze. "What do you mean, upgraded?"
"I mean your phone's now monitored by my security team. Every call, every text, every email gets filtered through us first."
I stared at him. "You're spying on me."
"I'm protecting you. There's a difference."
"No, there isn't!" I jumped up, phone clutched in my hand. "This is my phone! My privacy!"
"Privacy's a luxury you can't afford anymore, Victoria. Not when there are people out there who want you dead."
I tried calling my assistant Sarah, but the call wouldn't go through. Same with my lawyer, my accountant, even my dentist. Every number gave me the same message: "Call cannot be completed as dialed."
"You blocked everyone," I said, my voice climbing toward hysteria. "I can't call anyone!"
"You can call approved numbers. My number. My driver. The concierge. Anyone else needs security clearance first."
"This is kidnapping!"
Marco stood up slowly, and something about how he moved made me step back. "No, Victoria. Kidnapping means you're here against your will. But we both know that's not true."
"Of course it's against my will!"
"Is it? Because an hour ago, you were coming on my fingers while I told you about killing your husband. Doesn't sound like someone who wants to leave."
Heat flooded my face. The worst part was, he was right. Even knowing what he was, what he'd done, I'd still responded to his touch.
I tried my banking app again, but it still wouldn't load. "What about my accounts? My money?"
"Frozen. For your protection."
"Stop saying that! How is stealing my money protecting me?"
Marco walked around the table until he was in front of me. I wanted to back away, but I was already against the wall.
"Because David's death left you exposed, Victoria. The FBI's investigating his activities. They'll be looking at your finances next, trying to figure out what you knew."
"I didn't know anything!"
"They don't know that. And if they find large withdrawals or suspicious transfers, they'll assume you're either involved or trying to run. Either way, you end up in federal prison."
I stared at him, processing. "So you froze my accounts to... help me?"
"I froze your accounts to keep you safe. And to keep you here."
At least he was honest.
"I need my phone back. My real phone, without whatever spy shit you put on it."
"Not gonna happen."
"Then I need to contact my lawyer."
"Your lawyer works for a firm that represents three major banks and two pharmaceutical companies. You think he's gonna risk his career to help the wife of a dead criminal? He's probably already distancing himself from you."
The casual cruelty hit me like a slap. Marco was right—everyone I'd thought was in my corner would abandon me the second things got messy. They were business relationships, not friendships.
I was completely alone.
"This isn't protection," I said quietly. "This is prison."
"No, Victoria. Prison's what you'd get if I let you walk out unprepared. This is a cocoon. Safe and warm until you're ready to handle the outside world."
"And when will that be?"
Marco reached up to touch my cheek, his thumb stroking my skin with surprising gentleness. "When you stop fighting what's happening and start accepting it."
I jerked away. "Never."
Marco's smile was soft and terrifying. "We'll see."
He went back to the kitchen, and I heard him moving around, washing dishes, putting things away. Like this was a normal morning. Like he hadn't just told me he'd killed my husband and was now holding me prisoner.
I slumped into the nearest chair, phone still clutched in my hands. Even if I could get it working, who would I call? My parents were dead. No siblings. My friends were all people I'd met through David or work—people who'd disappear the minute my name got connected to anything criminal.
Marco was right. I was completely alone.
"Victoria." His voice was gentle. "Come here."
"No."
"Please."
Something in his tone made me look up. He was standing at the kitchen island, two plates of food in front of him. Not the eggs I'd been picking at—something new. Something that smelled incredible.
"I made you something different. French toast. My grandmother's recipe."
Against my better judgment, I found myself walking toward him. The French toast looked perfect—golden brown, dusted with powdered sugar, fresh berries on the side.
"You made this for me?"
"You said you weren't hungry for eggs. Thought you might prefer something sweet."
I stared at the plate, then at him. This beautiful, dangerous man who'd just confessed to murder was making me breakfast because I didn't like eggs.
"Why are you being nice to me?"
Marco looked genuinely confused. "Because I want to take care of you."
"You want to control me."
"Both things can be true." He pushed the plate closer. "Eat. Please."
I took a bite to shut him up. It was delicious—light and fluffy, with just the right amount of cinnamon. Exactly what I would've ordered at a fancy brunch place.
"Good?" Marco asked, watching me eat with intensity that made me uncomfortable.
"It's fine."
"Just fine?"
"It's good, okay? It's really good." I took another bite, hating that I was enjoying it. "Where'd you learn to cook like this?"
"My grandmother, like I said. She raised me and Alessandro after our parents died."
I remembered him mentioning his brother before. The one David had supposedly betrayed. "What happened to your parents?"
Marco's jaw tightened. "Car bomb. I was eight."
"Jesus." I set down my fork. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be. It was a long time ago."
But I could see it wasn't. The pain was still there, buried deep but visible if you knew how to look. This beautiful, dangerous man was still that eight-year-old boy who'd lost everything.
"Is that when you... got involved in this life?"
"Born into it. The Castellanos have been running things in New York for three generations. My great-grandfather started with numbers and protection rackets. By the time my father took over, we controlled half the docks in Brooklyn."
"And now?"
Marco's smile was sharp. "Now we control a lot more than that."
I pushed the French toast around on my plate, processing everything he'd told me. "You said David betrayed your brother. What did he do exactly?"
Marco was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was careful, controlled. "David wasn't just laundering money for the Torrinos. He was feeding information to the FBI about everyone—us, the Russians, the Irish. Names, dates, locations, financial records. Everything."
"But why? What did he get out of it?"
"Immunity. Protection. The FBI promised to look the other way on his activities as long as he kept giving them intel."
I thought about the man I'd married, how careful he'd always been talking about work, how he'd never wanted me involved. "How long was he doing this?"
"At least five years. Maybe longer."
Five years. Our entire marriage. Every conversation about his work, every business trip, every late night at the office—all of it could've been lies.
"The FBI agent you showed me in that photo..."
"Sarah Chen. David's handler. She's probably shitting herself right now, wondering how much you know."
"I don't know anything!"
"Doesn't matter. You're a loose end. And people like Agent Chen don't like loose ends."
I set down my fork, appetite gone. "So the FBI wants me dead too?"
"Not dead. Silenced. There's a difference, but not much of one."
The walls suddenly felt like they were closing in. "How many people want me gone?"
Marco counted on his fingers. "The Torrinos, because they think you might know about their money laundering. The Russians, because David fucked up three of their deals. The Irish, because he got two of their guys arrested. And yeah, probably the FBI, because you're a witness to their illegal operation."
"Jesus Christ."
"Like I said, you're safer here."
I looked around the penthouse—the expensive furniture, the bulletproof windows, the security systems I was only just starting to understand. "This really is a prison, isn't it?"
"It's whatever you make it, Victoria. You can fight it and be miserable, or you can accept it and find a way to be happy."
"Happy? My husband's dead, I'm trapped here, and half of New York wants me killed. How exactly am I supposed to be happy?"
Marco moved around the island until he was behind my chair. His hands settled on my shoulders, thumbs working small circles against the tension.
"You can start by admitting your marriage was a lie," he said quietly. "David never loved you the way you deserved. He used you as cover for his real life."
"That's not true."
"Isn't it? When's the last time he surprised you with something just because he wanted to make you smile? When's the last time he touched you like he couldn't help himself? When's the last time he looked at you like you were the most important thing in his world?"
I wanted to argue, but the words wouldn't come. Because Marco was right. David had been distracted, distant, always thinking about something else even when we were together.
"He loved me in his way," I said weakly.
"His way was selfish and cold. He kept you at arm's length because he didn't want you to see who he really was." Marco's hands moved to my neck, fingers working the tight muscles. "You were his beautiful wife, his perfect cover story. The respectable woman married to the successful businessman."
"Stop."
"You know I'm right. Deep down, you've always known something was wrong. The secretiveness, the separate bank accounts, how he'd change the subject whenever you asked about work."
I closed my eyes, letting Marco's hands work the tension from my shoulders. He was right about all of it, and I hated him for it.
"The night he died," Marco continued, his voice barely above a whisper, "David called out your name. Not because he loved you, but because he was terrified of what would happen to you when the truth came out. He knew you'd be left to clean up his mess."
"If he knew I'd be in danger, why did he do it?"
"Because David was weak. And selfish. He thought he could play both sides and come out ahead. He thought he was smarter than everyone else."
Marco's hands stilled on my shoulders. "He was wrong."
I opened my eyes and looked at the French toast growing cold on my plate. Everything I'd thought I knew about my life was a lie. My husband, my marriage, even my financial security—all of it built on David's criminal activities and betrayals.
"What am I supposed to do now?" I asked quietly.
"Now you learn to trust me." Marco's hands went back to working the knots in my shoulders. "I know it's hard. I know you hate me for what I did to David. But I'm the only one who can keep you safe."
"By keeping me prisoner."
"By keeping you alive."
I leaned forward, away from his touch. "There has to be another way. Witness protection, or—"
"Witness protection's run by the FBI. The same FBI that David was working with. You think they're gonna protect you from their own corruption?"
"Then I'll hire private security—"
"With what money? Your accounts are frozen, remember? And even if they weren't, how long you think you could afford a team good enough to keep you safe from people like the Torrinos?"
He was right, and I hated it. Every option I could think of led back to the same conclusion: I was trapped.
"This isn't living," I said. "This is just... existing."
Marco walked around to face me, leaning against the island with his arms crossed. "Doesn't have to be. You could have a good life here, Victoria. We could have a good life together."
"Built on my husband's murder?"
"Built on the truth. David's dead, and you're alive. You can spend the next year mourning what you never really had, or you can start figuring out what you actually want."
I looked at him—really looked at him. Even knowing what he was, what he'd done, there was something magnetic about Marco Castellano. The way he looked at me, like I was something precious. The way he touched me, like he couldn't help himself. The way he'd made me breakfast because I didn't like eggs.
It was twisted and wrong and completely fucked up.
And it was more attention than David had given me in the last two years of our marriage.
"I need time to think," I said finally.
"Take all the time you need. But Victoria?" Marco reached out to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. "While you're thinking, remember this—I could've killed you along with David. I could've made you disappear without a trace. Instead, I'm offering you protection, comfort, and more pleasure than you've ever had."
His fingers trailed down my neck, making me shiver despite everything.
"The question isn't whether you can trust me," he continued. "The question's whether you can trust yourself to want something better than what you had."
Before I could respond, he kissed me. Soft and slow and devastating, like he had all the time in the world. When he pulled back, my heart was racing.
"Think about that," he murmured against my lips. "Think about what it feels like to be wanted."
Then he was gone, leaving me alone in the kitchen with cold French toast and a head full of dangerous thoughts.
I picked up my phone again, scrolling through contacts I couldn't call, apps I couldn't use, the life I couldn't access. Marco was right—I was completely cut off from everything I'd known before.
But maybe that wasn't entirely bad.
David had lied to me for years. My friends were fair-weather at best. My career was probably over thanks to the federal investigation. Everything I'd thought was solid had turned out to be smoke and mirrors.
Everything except the way Marco looked at me. The way he touched me. The way he seemed to see something in me that no one else ever had.
It was sick. It was wrong.
It was the only real thing I had left.
I took another bite of the French toast, savoring the sweetness. Maybe Marco was right. Maybe it was time to stop mourning what I'd lost and start figuring out what I actually wanted.
The thought should've terrified me.
Instead, it felt like the first honest moment I'd had in years.
End of Chapter 4