Anchor in the Storm
The Unicorn’s Eye was quiet now, the long mahogany table cleared of most of the tactical chaos that had consumed them for hours. Henrietta sat at the head beside Luca like a silent sentinel, pink and absurd against the fading glow of the holo-map. Diplomacy rested near Gabe, who tapped quietly at his tablet, cataloging anomalies and movements they could barely see—his fingers a ghostly extension of the network Luca suspected but couldn’t yet name.
Antonio folded papers neatly, Santiago cleaned a blade, and Marco leaned against the table, keeping one eye on Luca as he traced corridors, escape routes, and potential interception points across the glowing maps. Luca’s jaw was tight, mind racing through every possible scenario, every unseen hand that could have snatched the chemist faster than they had.
“We adapt, we wait, we strike,” Luca murmured, almost to himself, tracing a finger along a projected street map. “Every corridor, every patrol, every move is part of the net. Whoever took the chemist underestimated patience. Not twice.”
Marco’s gaze softened as he watched Luca, noticing the subtle tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers flexed around the edge of the table. “You’ve carried this weight long enough,” Marco said quietly. “Let us share it.”
The team eventually filed out—Santiago patrolling the estate grounds, Antonio securing perimeters and checking communications, Gabe slipping away with Diplomacy.
Marco waited until the hall was quiet before stepping up beside Luca. He didn’t speak right away, just stood close, his presence solid and steady. Luca’s jaw flexed, the only movement in his stillness.
“You’re wound tighter than a bowstring,” Marco murmured at last. “Talk to me.”
Luca’s eyes stayed on the floorboards, the shadows stretching long in the lamplight.
“Something doesn’t fit. We cut Scarpelli at the knees, but he didn’t flinch. No retaliation. No scrambling. Just… silence.”
“And Gabe?” Marco pressed, his tone careful.
Luca’s throat worked before he answered. “He’s hiding something. I don’t know what. But I can feel it.”
Marco’s hand found the back of his neck, kneading gently. “You trust him?”
“I trust his loyalty to me, his friendship,” Luca said, voice low, weighted. “But not the whole of him. There are corners of that boy I haven’t seen. And that bothers me.”
Marco squeezed lightly, grounding him. “Then we keep watch. Quiet. Patient. No rash moves. If there’s something in the shadows, we’ll see it before it strikes.”
Luca’s gaze flicked back to the table. Henrietta sat there, ridiculous and steadfast. He reached for her without thinking, fingers curling around soft pink fabric. Marco passed her into his hands, no words needed.
Finally, Luca leaned back into Marco’s touch, Henrietta tucked tight to his chest. “I hate being left in the dark.”
“Then let me be your light,” Marco said, his lips brushing Luca’s temple.
With a hand at the small of his back, Marco steered him gently through the villa’s quiet halls, past oil paintings and the faint scent of lemon polish that always clung to the wood. The house was sleeping—crew tucked away in their own homes, guards posted discreetly at the gate, the vineyards outside silvered under the moonlight. For once, the villa felt like what it was meant to be: a home.
By the time they reached their bedroom, Luca’s shoulders had dipped a fraction, the tension bleeding out in small doses. Marco shut the door softly behind them, the world of raids and chemists and Scarpelli staying firmly on the other side.
The room was dim, lit only by the amber glow of a bedside lamp. Their bed—large, sprawling, draped in rich linens—waited like a promise. Luca loosened his tie with sharp, restless fingers, pacing once before Marco caught his hands mid-motion.
“Hey,” Marco’s voice was low, coaxing. “You don’t have to keep spinning tonight.”
Luca exhaled, the sound edged with frustration. “I can’t shut it off. I keep replaying everything—what we missed, what I didn’t see. The chemist, Scarpelli’s silence… it doesn’t add up.”
Marco tugged him closer, close enough that Luca’s forehead brushed against his collarbone. “That’s because you’re Don Valeri. You see everything. You carry everything. But right now?” Marco’s fingers threaded through his hair, deliberate and grounding. “Right now, you just get to be Luca.”
The name—Luca—pulled something taut in his chest. He closed his eyes, letting the weight of Marco’s steadiness anchor him. For a long moment, the world shrank down to the steady thrum of Marco’s heartbeat under his cheek.
“You think I’m wrong about Gabe,” Luca murmured finally, the words muffled but heavy.
“I think you’re tired,” Marco said honestly, brushing his lips over Luca’s temple. “Suspicion can twist sharp when you’re this worn down. We’ll watch. Quietly. Together. If there’s truth to it, we’ll see it. But I won’t let you carry it alone.”
Luca’s grip tightened in Marco’s shirt, the fight slowly giving way to bone-deep weariness. “You always say the right thing.”
“That’s because I know you better than anyone,” Marco replied with a small smile, guiding him back toward the bed. “And I know when you need your crown… and when you need it set aside.”
He coaxed Luca down onto the mattress, sliding in beside him. The silk sheets whispered as Marco pulled him close, tucking him against his chest.
For once, Luca didn’t argue. Didn’t calculate. Didn’t lead. He just breathed, Marco’s warmth drawing the shadows out of him one by one.
Marco had Luca settled against him, but he could still feel the tension coiled in him, sharp as wire. Luca’s jaw was tight, his chest rising and falling too quickly, like sleep would never find him.
“Still thinking?” Marco asked softly, though he already knew the answer.
Luca huffed a bitter laugh, eyes flashing open. “When am I not?”
Marco tilted his head, studying him in the low amber light. Then he leaned down, capturing Luca’s mouth in a kiss that was unhurried but unyielding. A kiss that didn’t ask for answers—only surrender.
At first, Luca resisted; the fight within him refused to loosen. But Marco knew him. He deepened the kiss, one hand cradling the back of his neck, the other sliding beneath Luca’s shirt to press warm against bare skin.
“Marco—” Luca tried, voice already fraying at the edges.
“No,” Marco murmured against his lips. “No more words tonight. Let me remind you where you are. Who you are. Mine.”
The sound Luca made was halfway between a sigh and a growl, his hands fisting in Marco’s shirt like he couldn’t decide whether to push him away or drag him closer. Marco decided for him, easing the shirt off Luca’s shoulders, mapping his chest with slow, deliberate touches that demanded his attention.
“You’re in your head too much,” Marco whispered, mouth trailing along Luca’s jaw, his throat. “Let me bring you back down.”
Every kiss, every touch, was grounding—teasing him out of strategy and suspicion and back into sensation. Luca’s breath caught when Marco’s hand slid lower, undoing the last barriers between them.
“Marco,” he breathed, raw and low now, no trace of Don Valeri in it—just Luca, undone and desperate.
“That’s better,” Marco said, voice rough with need but steady. “Stay with me. Right here.”
What followed wasn’t frantic; it was slow, controlled, Marco coaxing him into release the same way he always did—patiently, powerfully, as if he knew every secret note of Luca’s body until there was no space left for Scarpelli, or Davide, or a hidden chemist. No thoughts at all, just sensation, just Marco.
When it was over, Luca collapsed against him, boneless and quiet, chest heaving. Marco held him close, stroking his hair back with the kind of reverence that felt almost like worship.
“See?” Marco murmured, pressing a kiss to his damp temple. “Not thinking. Just being.”
Luca didn’t argue this time. Didn’t even try. He only buried his face in Marco’s chest and let himself drift, finally unburdened.