CHAPTER THREE - Unforseen Circumstances
1557 Words
The ceiling above him was unfamiliar — high, ornate, and bathed in dim light that flickered slightly with the shadows of the room. Marco's eyes fluttered open slowly, the ache in his head pounding in sync with his heartbeat. His throat burned with each shallow breath, and when he coughed, it came rough and violent, raking through his chest.
He felt hot… too hot. Yet his skin shivered with the lingering cold from the rain that had soaked through him hours ago. Or had it been hours? He didn’t know. Time felt slippery.
With a groan, he pushed himself upright, his body trembling under the effort. The fever made his limbs feel like they belonged to someone else. Sweat clung to his temples, and the room spun slightly as he staggered to his feet. He blinked hard, trying to steady himself.
Where the hell was he?
The room was luxurious but cold — dark wood, heavy drapes drawn half-closed, and a faint scent of smoke hanging in the air. It was nothing like home. As he moved toward the far end of the room, his gaze caught on the tall mirror standing near the wall.
Marco stopped.
His reflection stared back at him, but it didn’t look right. His shirt was gone, replaced by a loose, plain tee he didn’t recognize. His hair was damp, messy, his face flushed red with fever. His eyes narrowed as anger began to simmer beneath his confusion.
Who the hell had changed his clothes?
He ran a hand through his hair, frustration bubbling just under the surface. Then he heard it — a voice, smooth as silk, laced with sarcasm.
“Are you awake?”
Marco froze.
The voice came from behind him, soft and teasing, like it was meant to unsettle him. Slowly, he turned, and his heart slammed against his ribs.
Alessandro De Luca stood near the doorway, arms crossed casually over his chest. His dark hair was slightly tousled, his posture languid, as if he had all the time in the world. The low light caught the sharp angles of his face, the slight smirk tugging at his lips. He was dressed in silk pajamas — dark, sleek, and expensive — hanging off him in a way that felt almost... deliberate.
Marco’s breath hitched, his confusion turning into anger.
“Who the hell are you?” he demanded, voice rough from fever and fury. “And what am I doing here?”
Alessandro's smile widened. He tilted his head slightly, as if amused by the question.
“Your new owner,” he drawled, the words slow and deliberate. “I guess. You’re my property from today henceforth.”
The words hit Marco like a punch to the chest. His blood boiled instantly.
“I’m not anyone’s property,” he snapped, taking a step forward despite the weakness dragging at his body. “Who the hell do you think you are?”
Before Alessandro could answer, the door behind him opened with a quiet click.
Augustus stepped in. Tall, broad, with the same calculated calm as his son. He paused for a moment, taking in the scene — Marco standing furious and flushed, Alessandro smirking lazily.
Augustus's gaze flicked to Marco, and something sharp passed behind his eyes. Slowly, the corner of his mouth lifted into a smug, satisfied smirk.
“Ah. I see you’re awake,” he said. His voice was smooth, edged with amusement. “Alessandro... meet me in my office when you’re done.”
And just like that, it hit Marco.
Alessandro De Luca.
He felt his stomach drop.
“You’re—” Marco’s voice caught in his throat.
Alessandro lifted a brow. “Finally catching up?” he said dryly.
As Augustus left, Marco’s anger surged again, stronger this time. He took a shaky step forward.
“You drugged me,” he spat. “Is that why my face looks like this?”
Alessandro sighed lightly, as if the entire conversation bored him.
“I didn’t know the sedative would make your face red,” he admitted, with the kind of offhanded concern that didn’t feel like concern at all. “And frankly… I don’t like owning something that isn’t perfect.”
The words made Marco's blood boil.
“I’m not yours.”
Alessandro stepped closer, slowly closing the distance between them. He reached out, his fingers brushing the air between them as if to touch him — to test him.
Marco jerked back instantly.
“Don’t touch me,” he growled.
But his body was failing him. The fever blurred his vision; the room tilted sharply. He stumbled, knees buckling under him.
And before he could hit the ground, Alessandro caught him.
His arms were strong, steady, holding him firm. For a brief second, Marco felt the warmth of his skin against his own, the solidness of him.
The room reeked of sweat and fear. Alexandro De Luca stood in front of his men, his chest rising and falling with barely restrained fury. The dim overhead light flickered, casting jagged shadows across his face — sharp cheekbones, clenched jaw, eyes dark with rage.
“You left him… in the rain.”
His voice was low, dangerously calm. The kind of calm that made the men in front of him wish he’d just start shouting. Anything would be better than this.
Luca, the guard who had led the mission, shifted on his feet. “It wasn’t intentional, Boss. He fought back. We had to—”
“I don’t care,” Alexandro cut him off coldly. “You had your orders. Get him here in one piece.”
He took a step forward, and the room seemed to shrink. The other guards didn’t dare move.
“And now,” Alex continued, voice dropping lower, “the doctor tells me he’s burning up. Sick.” His lip curled slightly in disgust. “Because of you.”
Silence.
“He’s just one of them,” another guard muttered under his breath. “He’s a Rossi—”
The crash came so fast none of them saw it coming. Alex’s fist connected with the nearest glass tumbler on the desk, sending shards scattering across the floor. The sound echoed through the room, but Alex didn’t even flinch. His breathing was heavier now, his knuckles bleeding.
“I don’t care if he’s a Rossi,” he hissed. “He’s mine.”
The words hung in the air, cold and possessive.
“I hate damaged property,” he continued, voice quieter but no less lethal. “And now… he’s damaged.”
The guards looked at each other, tension thick enough to choke on. No one dared speak.
“Get out,” Alex said finally, his voice cutting through the silence like a knife.
They scrambled to obey, leaving him alone in the room. Alex exhaled slowly, dragging a hand down his face. He could still feel the fury burning under his skin, but beneath that… something else. Something he refused to name.
Because this wasn’t supposed to matter.
But it did.
---
Rossi's Mansion
The meeting hall buzzed with anger, voices overlapping as Diego Rossi’s men spat out curses and threats. The heavy scent of cigar smoke hung thick in the air, mingling with the tension crackling through the room. Diego sat at the head of the long wooden table, his knuckles white as he gripped the edge. His eyes burned with fury.
“They had the guts — the audacity — to take my son,” Diego growled, his voice cutting through the noise. “Augustus and his damn son think they can make a fool of me.”
Leo stood at his father’s right side, his jaw clenched. "We need to hit back. Hard. Show them we aren't weak."
A chorus of agreements echoed around the room, each man trying to outdo the other with threats of vengeance. Guns, blood, war — all the usual talk. But none of it was enough to quell the rage boiling in Diego’s chest.
Then, as if summoned by the very fury in the room, the heavy doors creaked open. The conversations faltered, then fell to a dead hush.
Augustus De Luca strode in, flanked by his guards. Tall, broad-shouldered, and draped in an expensive dark suit, he carried himself like a king walking into a room full of peasants. His gaze swept lazily over the gathered men before landing on Diego.
“Well,” Augustus drawled, his voice rich with condescension. "Quite the gathering. I almost thought you were preparing a funeral… but we both know you’d need a body for that."
Diego surged to his feet, eyes dark with rage. “You son of a—”
“Careful,” Augustus cut in smoothly, raising a hand. “I’d hate for you to say something you can’t take back. After all, it must sting, losing your boy so easily. Almost… pathetic, isn’t it?”
The room bristled with tension. Hands inched toward holsters. Leo stepped forward, but Diego stopped him with a raised hand. His gaze never left Augustus.
“You think this is over?” Diego’s voice was low, dangerous. “You think you’ll walk out of here without paying for what you did?”
Augustus smiled, cold and slow. "Oh, Diego… this isn’t over. It’s just the beginning."
- Writer
