It’s all too much.
The house. The drive. The way that Marco just… took care of everything.
I thought I knew him. I really thought that I at least had an idea of who Marco De Luca was. After all, I spent the better half of a year living with him. I thought I knew details about him, like what made him smile or how competent he was at fixing things like a silly garden gate.
It turns out, I don’t know Marco De Luca at all.
He’s smooth.
Watching him bully a notorious French gangster. Watching him steal a fucking Ferrari. Watching his hands on the steering wheel as he drove it up twisting roads in the Alps, the mountains on either side of us dropping away into the valley floor below, while he didn’t so much as break a sweat…
If I had tried to apprehend Marco De Luca, just on the street, as a regular criminal, I wouldn’t have stood a chance.
The fact that he was in my custody for so long, while also being this type of a person, tells me one thing.
Marco allowed himself to remain in my little cottage. He chose to be there.
Because the man who smoothly produced two perfect fake passports and a boatload of cash, the man who’s been sitting and monitoring a security system for the past two days, who has cooked me dinners worthy of a Michelin star, quietly leaving the plate outside of the room that I’ve decided is mine, isn’t a man who can be contained.
I was right, all those times when I was overwhelmed by him.
Marco De Luca is a force of nature.
And I never stood a chance at containing him.
I know that I should take the time to dig into who is trying to frame me. It’s been three days since we arrived in Lugano, and basically all I’ve done is eat, and sleep, and mope.
I feel like a bloody worm.
But, I’m also… hurting.
I don’t know if it’s the fact that I’ve just left everything for so long, or if learning about my mother broke me. But I feel, literally, broken. Every time I move, something inside my chest seems to tweak. Every time I take a breath, it hurts.
I literally think that I’ve been broken by this.
My mother sold me.
The whole reason that I exist, on this planet, is that she made a deal with a literal devil. William MacAntyre, as she said, was an evil man.
And she not only made a deal with him, but when it was time to pay up, she did.
I wasn’t born out of love, or even some kind of mistake. I was very much planned.
The plan, however, was to create me so that I could be some kind of asset of my father’s. Like my brothers.
God almighty, are there other children out there like me? Creations that my father paid for, but he never came to collect?
I could ask my mother but…
I won’t.
I don’t know if I’ll ever talk to her again. I don’t know if I will want to. Knowing that she willingly followed everything my father did, that she not only played right into his hands, but developed plans with him?
It’s more than I can bear.
I am not a mistake. I’m not even a love-child, or something stupid like that. I’m no happy accident, and my mother wasn’t taken from me.
I was a cultivated plant.
And she sold me willingly.
The thoughts make the spot in my chest ache again. I’m past crying, it would seem, because while I feel the urge to, there are no tears that come out of my eyes.
Just emptiness.
Sorrow.
That’s what this feels like.
Sorrow, and loss, and a complete and total change in the world as I knew it.
The sound of footsteps in the hall draws my attention. I don’t listen to them, not really. It’s just very quiet in here. I can hear Marco shuffling around the house, so I know when he’s working in the computer room or when he’s making food.
I just don’t care anymore.
Marco knocks, as always, to open the door.
As always, I do nothing.
I wait for him to put the plate on the dresser, the soft clink of the porcelain on wood my sign to wait until the door snicks shut before I get up to try whatever pasta dish he’s decided to craft today.
But there isn’t one.
I turn over, blinking at the bright light of the door. “Marco?” I ask, my voice hoarse.
“Good morning.”
He’s holding something in his hand, and I can see a croissant placed on the dresser in the usual spot. I sit up slightly.
“What’s that?”
He tosses it at me.
It’s a swimsuit. A bikini, actually, and the thought of wearing it out on the lake while it’s this cold makes me wince.
“What’s this for?”
“Put it on.”
“Marco…”
“Put it on, or I will put it on for you,” he rumbles.
The door shuts.
I stare at the bikini. It’s my size, which is unsurprising, and it’s black. Also unsurprising. Marco isn’t exactly a colorful guy, so it stands to reason that his taste is similarly morose.
I don’t want to do whatever this is. I don’t…
“Put it on or I’ll put it on for you,” he growls through the door.
“It’s freezing out there,” I snap back.
“We’re not going to the lake in the winter.”
“Where are we going?”
“Put it on, and you’ll see,” he snarls.
Ugh.
My hands move, almost of their own accord, out to the bikini. Marco’s supplied me with an entire wardrobe since I got here. I have a shirt that I could cover this up with, so I don’t just prance around in a bikini wherever we’re going.
“In ten seconds, Roisin, if you don’t have it on…”
Insufferable man. “Fine. I’m going,” I yell.
I’m so annoyed with him, I am going to wear the biggest, baggiest set of clothes over this that I can find.
Ten seconds later, I whip open the door, covered in a giant sweatsuit and wearing the damn bikini. My hair is tugged into a messy bun, and I haven’t brushed my teeth.
It’s a clear symbol for wherever we’re going, I’m going to go but I protest.
Marco doesn’t even bat an eye. He grabs my hand, and tugs me toward the garage. When I ask where we’re going, he turns and winks.
Winks.
“You’ll see. Do you trust me?”
Bloody hell.
The answer is still fucking yes.
The car ride is several hours. We weave deep into the mountains. Marco chose a different vehicle this time, a rugged Range Rover that looks like it can conquer entire nations on its own. Eventually, he takes a turn up a tiny path that looks more goat path than road, cranking on the vehicle’s four-wheel drive system. The Range Rover snarls, leaping up the tiny road, and eventually I see a sign.
Bagni di Craveggia.
Accompanied by a little icon that has a circle, indicating water, and three wavy lines above it.
I frown. “What’s that?”
“You’ll see.”
I’m still angry at Marco, and I don’t want to ask him any follow up questions. So instead, I stare out the window and try to see if I can figure it out myself.
When we finally pull up to a mostly empty parking lot and a rocky lake, I finally give up. “What the hell, Marco,” I snap. “Where the hell are we?”
“I told you it was a surprise.”
He starts to unload the car, and I hop down. My feet are in boots, which I am glad I chose, because the cold seeps in through them. I look down at the lake, noting the ripples in the water…
Wait.
This high up, at this time of year, this lake should be solid ice. Completely frozen.
But it’s not frozen.
On top of that, it’s steaming…
“A hot spring?”
Marco’s smile makes something in my chest loosen. “I knew my smart girl was in there somewhere.”
My girl?
The comment leaves me momentarily stunned, and I watch Marco grab a bag of towels, with a wrapped package that looks suspiciously like a wine bottle, and head toward the spring.
Dumbfounded, I follow.
The spring is stunning. The mountains around us are hush, quiet with a blanket of snow. There’s no one else here, and I have no doubt there won’t be. To access this road, we practically had to use a car that can go over nearly any terrain. Not a lot of people will be able to follow us, not in the winter.
Plus, it’s starting to snow.
A couple of flakes drift down, evaporating once they hit the heat of the water. Marco uses a rock to set up a little tent, covering a space so the snow doesn’t fall on it. He places our bag there, keeping it dry and free from snow, then starts to pull off his shirt.
I stare.
Marco De Luca is a beautiful man. I’ve always known that. But the number of times that I’ve seen him without a shirt are few.
And now, I can see a lot.
Dense muscle rolls over his broad frame. Marco is shorter than his brothers, but definitely packed with the type of muscle that looks like it’s from another time entirely. He looks like he should be lifting a broadsword or straddling a destrier.
Not flexing those biceps, casually, to pop the top of a champagne bottle.
His skin is a very deep olive color. In the summer, I know that it bronzes, absorbing the sun like a sponge. His tattoos aren’t prolific like some men I’ve seen, but he has enough to make me want to touch them. The span of his broad pecs is covered in hair, but he’s somehow tamed it so that it looks… groomed.
Sexy.
Like I want to scrape my nails along it.
Marco takes his pants off next, and I instinctively turn. He laughs.
“I’m going in. There’s champagne for you here on the ledge,” he murmurs.
I peek, I will admit, as he moves toward the spring.
Damn.
With an ass like that, it’s a wonder he can put on pants at all.
Cautiously, I strip as well, then take the glass. The snow on the path feels like it’s burning, it’s so cold, and I scoot quickly to the spring.
Without looking to see if Marco is watching, I step down into the rocky spring.
The water is hot. It feels lovely, especially with the snow drifting down and the cold on my shoulders. I drink the champagne, and I feel the knot in my chest loosen slightly.
I can feel Marco watching me from across the spring, but I can’t look at him.
Not yet.
I sigh.
“So. This is your plan to… what? Get me naked and wet?”
“No,” he rumbles. “I just wanted to see you live again.”
That opens my eyes.
Marco stares at me, all intensity across the steam of the spring. He nods. “Finding out all that about your parents is terrible.”
I look down.
“When my parents died, I found my mom’s journal. She wrote in it about how she didn’t love my dad. The ways that he was cruel to her.”
I look at Marco.
He’s staring at me. “Eventually, they loved each other. But not at first. And not after she had a son by another man.”
“Dino,” I confirm.
He nods.
“Why are you telling me this?”
He shrugs. “Just thought you’d want to know you aren’t alone.”
It makes me feel…
The knot in my chest loosens further.
“You know, the whole reason I joined Interpol was to find my mum,” I whisper.
Marco’s gaze snaps to me, laser-like.
“I thought that she was in witness protection, or something. That if I was just in Interpol, and I worked in a similar agency, she’d come up. Eventually.”
He doesn’t say anything.
“My whole life. Literally all of it. Was a lie,” I whisper.
“No.”
I glance at Marco.
“It wasn’t a lie. You are who you are because of their choices. But you built yourself around the framework they gave. You are still yourself, Roisin. Even if the adults in your world lied to you.”
I hadn’t thought of it that way.
The thought turns over in my mind. Everything feels like it’s in turmoil.
And the handsome man in the hot spring is part of it.
I look at him. “Why are you doing this?” I ask again.
Marco narrows his eyes. “What do you mean?”
“You hate me. I betrayed you, remember? I lied to you,” I say. The words taste bitter on my tongue, and I sip champagne to get rid of them.
Marco’s eyes could cut through stone. “You did betray me. And I do hate that.”
“So why are you doing all this?” I gesture to the hot spring.
He hesitates. I can see the wheels of his mind turning. Finally, he gives me a sharp nod.
“Because I need you to be happy more than I hate that you lied to me.”
