The Prototype

49. Mystery Man

MARCELLUS

Under the moon's silver glow, the garden felt almost ethereal—a stark contrast to the storm brewing inside me. Tempest's words sank into my mind like hooks, dragging me deeper into a vortex of anger, frustration, and something darker, something primal. Each word unraveled a bit more of my composure, feeding the coiling fury within me.

Vincenzo. His name echoed like a twisted taunt, a reminder of his audacity. How could he be so brazen, so bold, to play his games with her, right under my roof, in my own ballroom, as if he held any power here? I gritted my teeth as the image clawed its way into my mind—him, creeping up behind her, his breath too close, whispering veiled threats, his hand brushing her arm like he was branding her.

That thought alone made my jaw clench tighter. He had no right. And yet, he'd left nothing I could use against him—no concrete evidence, no traceable misstep. Just a trail of audacity and menace. His deceit alone might've sealed his fate if I had the proof I needed to turn him into the worthless excuse for a made man he is. But tonight, he crossed a line, and he did it believing he could slip past me, as though he was somehow untouchable in my world.

Weak ass sneaky bastard.

The anger simmered low in my gut, a slow, rolling burn that tightened around my chest, coiling tighter with every second. The garden's soft lights illuminated Tempest, casting half of her face in shadow, the other in a faint, golden glow. Even beneath her controlled exterior, I could see the subtle signs of unease—an expression I never seen on her, and one that only fueled the heat of my rage. Since she been here, she's been a fortress, almost impossible to shake, and yet tonight, Vincenzo had managed to breach that wall, leaving her visibly unsettled.

Vincenzo turned a simple game into a sinister performance—a taunt, a threat directed not just at her but at me. A brazen display of his hunger, his desperate need for Tempest, something I long suspected but now it was confirmed, set in stone. Yet the question remained: why? What's he playing at? I know Vincenzo well enough to know this wasn't just a cheap ploy. There's an agenda, a purpose. His moves were deliberate, laced with a hidden motive, something much darker than mere lust. Something is much deeper than him wanting her which is why he wants her to so desperately remember him.

"He kept finding me," she said, voice laced with frustration. "One minute, he was in the crowd, just another face in a mask. The next, he was behind me, murmuring things no one else should know."

Her eyes flickered with a shadow I never saw—a flicker of vulnerability breaking through her usual defiance. "He knows my last name, Marcellus. No one in that ballroom should know that."

The mention of her last name, spoken by him, made my blood run hot of deadly lava. Vincenzo's approach was meticulous, the way he'd woven his words, his movements, and his threats with the precision of a surgeon.

Taking a slow, steady breath, I let the night air fill my lungs. The coolness should've eased the anger gnawing at me, but it didn't. I could feel my grip tightening around the edge of the stone as I looked out over the estate gardens. Lights scattered across the grounds, casting a soft, almost serene glow that was in direct contrast to the tension simmering within me.

Turning back to Tempest, I met her gaze, keeping my voice low, controlled. "He knows exactly what he's doing. He knew you'd come to me about this, knew that without evidence, there's nothing concrete I can take to Joseph. He's playing on that gap, thinking it'll buy him time to keep taunting you." I paused, feeling the words like shards in my mouth, hard and bitter.  "He staged tonight's performance to push you, to drag out whatever the hell he wants you to remember." My eyes narrowed, hardening with the thought.