Chapter 6: Marco's Trap

Leo traversed the west-side docks, his boots grinding against rain-glossed gravel, the smell of rust and sea salt filling the air. He clicked his Zippo open, the bright flame dancing in the graying, and smoked a cigarette, inhaling the smoke slowly, trying to snuff out the embers still burning in the pit of his stomach. His phone buzzed in his pocket, the screen illuminated cold in the swirling gray fog that seeped off Puget Sound. 7:32 a.m. Marco's text message, succinct and slashing, branded itself into his mind: "West—meet—hurt." It tugged at the goddamn oath that beat in his chest, a living, painful reminder of their two fates twined together. He scraped his jacket, the parchment beneath the leather groaning, a dull red sheen filtering through the fabric, alive and pressing. A gull shrieked overhead, its wings slashing through the mist, and Leo kicked a loose stone, the clatter ringing into the night where the sodium lights flashed feeble.

He'd told Vito to keep the crew at the warehouse, texting him in a rush: "Docks—Marco—check traps." But the old man's reply buzzed back brief: "Mikey's gone—east side—watch it." Mikey, Leo's runner, a skinny kid with a limp from a bad leg, as loyal as hell, had vanished since the action last night. Leo spit on the earth, spittle mingling with puddles, and twirled his knife once, the blade glinting in dull light. Marco's trick—bait, trap, what—son of a bitch. Heat scorched fiercer, stinging his back, and he clenched his teeth, his head aching once more, Marco's scent still wrapped around him, cigar smoke and leather, too real, too close.

There was a shadow that moved, abrupt and broad, between the cranes that were cankered, standing like ghostly sentinels. Leo ground out his cigarette on a box, the red ember going out, and drew his knife closer, his boots grating on the floor as he moved forward. The docks were still, too still, the rain falling softly on tin roofs, the waves slapping the pilings below. A chain was pulled, metal scraping faintly, and yellow eyes flickered once, then disappeared into the shadows. He brushed his arm, the scorched paper still warm, damn it, why did it stick? Tires growled low, an SUV taking a sharp turn around a stack of crates, black and shiny, Marco's men. Leo froze, knife flipped, his heart skipping, not hate, damn him.

Doors closed behind him, and Marco appeared, the unbuttoned collar of his silk shirt soaked black from the drizzle. He lit a cigar, the silvery lighter cracking, blowing slow wisps of smoke, his dark eyes coming into conflict with Leo's over the wet gravel. Two goons flanked his elbows, wetly glinting guns, one dragging Mikey along, the kid zip-tied, blood trickling from a split lip, his bad leg dragging limply. "Boss—" Mikey croaked, his voice breaking, and Marco snapped his cigar, ash spitting into a puddle, grinning, his head cocked like he owned the damn night.

"Got your stray, Russo," Marco drawled, his voice low and silky, a slash through the hum of the rain. He nodded, and Mikey lurched forward, pushed by a goon, his boots scraping gravel, the kid thudding onto his knees, groaning softly. Leo stepped in, boots crunching, knife flipped with a swift move, heat seeping, sharp, claws flicking beneath his nails, damn it, losing himself. "Let him go, Vitale," he growled, voice harsh, the smoke still bitter in his mouth. Marco's smile spread, damn him, why did it twist?

Marco grabbed Mikey’s collar, yanking him up, silk brushing the kid’s torn jacket. “Meeting first,” he said, dark eyes glinting, steady, too calm. He flicked his cigar again, smoke curling thick, and stepped closer, boots scuffing, rain beading on his lashes. “You’re late—hurt bad last night—thought you’d care.” Leo kicked a crate, wood splintering loudly, and lunged, knife slashing air, Marco dodged, grabbed Leo’s wrist, twisted hard, the blade clattering softly to the gravel.

"Fuck you," Leo growled, pulled away, boots scraffling, heat exploding, chest ablaze, claws half-forged, black tips ripping skin, blood beading dimly, red, burning. He stumbled, his vision fading, Marco's laughter cutting low, sharp, damn him, standing, laughing. "Feel it, Russo," Marco panted, stepping in close, too close, his breath whispering smoky, warm, silk unfolding, the tattoo pulsing dimly on his chest, the twin-headed raven, crimson, living. "This isn't just a pact—it's fate."

Leo growled, claws lashing, air ripping, Marco evaded, silk brushing softly, a pink mark welling on his arm, blood flowing slowly, warm, moist. "Fate?" Leo thundered, his voice splintering, boots scraping, the shift rushing, bones groaning, savage, raw, fur rippling beneath skin, eyes blazing, alpha fire, for crying out loud, losing it. Marco didn't stir, the cigar burning red between his fingers, narrowed dark eyes, peaceful, too damn peaceful, observing as if he knew, damn him, why was it smoldering?

"Easy," Marco panted, his voice low, level, holding on to Leo's arm, firm, warm, pulling him back, claws receding, agonizing slow, pain burning, heat dulled, not lost, damn him, why should it work? Leo shoved him, chest ramming, silk rumpled, boots scuffed, puffed breath, aching head, Marco's grip still held, hot, pulsing, the oath vibrated, red seared in his pocket, damn it, why both, Marco and Ezra, rending him in two?

Marco released him, stepped back, lit another cigar, silver lighter snapped, puffing smoke slowly, goons shifted, guns cocked faintly, Mikey whimpered, knees scuffing gravel. “You’re fighting it—makes it worse,” Marco said, tilting his head, dark hair stuck slick to his brow, rain gleaming on his skin. “Oath’s blood—ours—feel it too—don’t you?

Leo kicked the ground, gravel scattered, knife glinted wet, picked it up, flipped it, puffing air, heat flared, sharp, not just hate, damn him, damn this.". "No," Leo lied, his voice rough, claws sore, shift tempted, Marco stepped in, boots scraped, reached out and grabbed Leo's collar, pulled gently, breath brushed, smoky, close, dark eyes met, too steady, too intense, pulse leapt, wild, not just anger, damn it, why did it stay?

Marco sneered, pulled a knife from his belt, blade flashed quick, silver hilt glinting in the dim light, pushed it into Leo's hand, firm, slow, metal cold on searing flesh.

"Show me," Marco growled, his voice softer, darker, more insistent harder, blade driven in, skin ripped apart, blood seeping fast, red, hot, oozing slowly, rain watered it down, scarlet bubbled, hazy, shimmering, warm, alive, damn it, vow responding, Marco laid Leo's hand upon his own breast, silk moistening, blood seeping, red blazed hot, then softened, sank into Marco's skin, tattoo beat, twin-headed raven, scarlet, hot, damn him, why did it mix?

Leo yanked back, blood smeared, knife clattered, boots scuffed, heat roared, claws half-shifted, vision blurred, Marco’s laugh cut, low, sharp, damn him, watching, amused, calm, too calm. “We’re not done,” Marco said, voice steady, dark eyes glinting, cigar glowing red, smoke curling thick, rain pattered, wind howled, Mikey groaned, goons shifted, guns steady, Leo stumbled, head splitting, oath burned, crimson pulsed, alive, whose trap, whose blood, whose fate, yanked him, next?