The Prototype

74. Residual Heat

MARCELLUS

The echo of my footsteps rolled through the hall, Light from the ceiling veiled the corridor in honeyed warmth, the polished floors swallowing it, the marble rejecting it, sending shards of pale light to my heels as if the house itself counted each measured step I took. I breathed in the scent that claimed this wing: leather older than any of the newer staff, the faint stubborn trace of smoke that soaked into the beams and never properly left. It steadied me in a way Italy could not.

My hand closed around the doorknob of my office door. The cold metal pressed against my palm before the hinges answered with a low groan, the sound filling the quiet space as I entered. The door closed behind me, sealing the silence back into the walls. My eyes swept the room—everything where it belonged. The desk in its place of authority, the tall windows caught the muted light through layers of gray cloud.

Taking my seat behind the desk allowing the leather mold to my back. My hands pressed against the polished surface, the shine cold and slick under my palms. A slow breath left me, the air inside the room dense but steadying. For the first time since I'd returned, I welcomed the stillness. The hum of the house faded, leaving nothing but the low rhythm of my own breathing.

Then, a knock came.

Low at first, steady and patient, spreading through the room like a ripple. My eyes lifted toward the door, focus narrowing as the second knock landed—firmer.

"Come in," I said, my voice steady, the authority in it cutting through the quiet.

The door opened, Nino leading, his shoulders carrying his confidence, his movements heavy but controlled. Then Uncle Galilei, the slow deliberate presence of a man who outlived dozens of small men's ambitions. Gia and Gabby moved like identical blades folded into silk, heels a soft percussion on the floor, eyes that catalogued everything and announced nothing.

"You finally back and seated, huh?" Nino said, as they all filed in, each of them finding their seats like this was routine. His grin faint but sharp at the edges. He moved toward the chair opposite mine and sat, leaning back, posture casual but his eyes searching. "Seems like ever since you and Tempest got back from Italy, you've been gone. Nonstop. Not even a break."

I leaned back, the leather creaking softly under the motion. My fingers tapped once against the armrest before stilling. "I had to go to France," I said, my tone even. "Etienne Duval and I finalized the remaining contracts. I wanted it clear that his victory benefits me as much as it does him. Everything is signed and secured."

The words landed without room for argument. Nino nodded but didn't hide the curiosity.

Gia crossed one leg over the other, her perfume—faint citrus, sandlewood, vanilla—mixing with the room's heavier air. "Meanwhile, Tempest's been stuck in bed with the flu since you came back. Poor thing probably hates Italy now."

The comment dragged heat through my chest before I could stop it. Memory surfaced—thick, vivid. Rain hammering down. Tempest's wet skin against mine, her legs locking around my hips as I drove into her, both of us drenched and reckless while thunder rolled through the sky. Her voice, breathless and rough, her moans cutting through the storm. Her nails tracing down my back as the air split with lightning. The wild satisfaction in her eyes that matched my own.

A faint smirk curved my mouth before I straightened it away. "Strange how a little weather shift could take her down like that," my voice low, tinged with arrogance. "Though I would've paid to hear the words that she was cursing"

Gabby quietly laughed pushing her hair behind her ear, "No sir, I don't think you would have wanted to hear or know the words she was cursing and what she was saying."