My Severe Brother

ch 3: Cole

Marco's pov

I'm Cole Marco Carnell, 24 years old, a lawyer, and I've taken the reins of my dad's affairs after his death. Officially, they say he's dead, but my gut tells me otherwise. I've inherited his role as the head of the Mafia, and my commitment is split between searching for him and my missing brother. The old man's last wish. Honestly, I couldn't care less about his long-lost son.

That day™

"Oh, this kid again?" I groaned internally as my secretary sought permission for the persistent young man.

He's been a constant shadow, popping up everywhere – restaurants, banks, malls, in front of my company, and now, inside the company itself. If I turn him away now, I half-expect to find him in my bathroom.

"Sir, he wants to do an interview with you," my secretary informed me.

"Why haven't I shot him since the first time I met him?" I mumbled to myself.

"Sir?" She asked, confused.

"Nothing. Let him in."

"Okay, the room is named Cole Marco Carnell," I heard her inform him.

"Thank you," he cheered.

"Oh sorry, I forgot to cancel," she apologized.

"Fine." I opened the door, and he strolled in. "Take a seat."

"Thank you for accepting me," he smiled.

It dawned on me that he had dazzling eyes, sparkling like icy sapphires in the light. Something about them had me captivated.

"Like I have a choice! You annoyed me all the time... If I said no, I'd expect to find you in my car," I remarked.

He giggled, "I'm Peter."

"Hey," I said, glaring.

"I came to ask you some questions for my school magazine."

"Make it quick," I said, taking a sip from my wine.

"Isn't your name Marco?"

"Yes, it is."

"So who's Cole?"

"My first name. Start, please," I tried to be gentle.

"Can I have a cup of water? The way here was tiring," his voice slightly shaking – nervous.

"Okay," I went to the fridge to get a bottle of water. Suddenly, the siren went off by ringing. I looked at him, slightly startled. He was in the middle of poisoning me.

My men entered the room and arrested the kid. He begged not to be taken to jail. Poor guy, if he knew better, he would've chosen jail over my place.

"I'll take it to the warehouse, sir," one of the men informed.

"Marco, are you fine?" my friend David entered the office, concerned.

"Yep," I shrugged.

He looked at the little sinner. "Take him to the warehouse; we are coming," David ordered the boys.

"Where? No, no please," the blue-eyed kid started to yell.

"You are going to be in so much pain; I'll make you pay for ruining my drink," I said darkly.

For three days, I watched my men torment the kid, taking good care of his stubbornness. He was just crying, not answering any questions, and asking my men to call me.

David said, "Hey Marco, I know I shouldn't interfere in your business, but he is a child. You shouldn't torture him like that. Try to speak to him."

"No, the boys didn't get him good, so I will."