Extras Ch 11: Marco - A Fool Among Wolves

Extras Ch 11: Marco - A Fool Among Wolves

Marco sat in the northern salon with the rest of the Volkov soldiers. Dante liked to gather them once a week, listen to their stories and ask their advice.

Currently, Dante was talking about business—the kind Kazimir never bothered to explain to men like Marco: Shipments coming through Genoa that needed creative routing. A customs official in Naples who'd gotten greedy and needed his palm greased or his legs broken. Territory disputes on the eastern docks.

"The Contis are testing boundaries again," Dante said. He lounged in his high-backed chair, a glass of fine wine in his hand—the kind he offered to all the men present today. "They've been nibbling at the marina routes for months."

"Then we take a finger," an older soldier, Gallo, grumbled from his spot near the window. "Make them think twice about the whole hand."

Dante smiled. "Taking fingers is Kazimir's style. Direct. Obvious. It works, don't get me wrong—my nephew is very good at the bloody end of things." He paused, letting the words settle. "But a man who only knows how to break bones eventually runs out of bones to break. Strategy is about leverage and making your enemy destroy himself while you watch from a comfortable distance."

Marco nodded along with the others. Dante had a way of talking that made one feel smart just for listening.

"The Contis have a cousin in customs," Dante continued. "A nervous young man with gambling debts. If those debts were to be acquired by the right people, they'll start bleeding money and don't even know why." He spread his hands. "No broken bones. No war. Just patience and a little creativity."

"Beautiful," Marco heard himself say and meant it. "That's—that's beautiful, Don Moretti."

The word slipped out before he could stop it. Don. The title that belonged to the true head of a family. A few of the other soldiers glanced at Marco, then at Dante.

Dante's smile deepened. His eyes found Marco's face. "Don, is it?" His tone was amused, not scolding. "Careful, Marco. My nephew might misunderstand. He's very protective of his position."

A ripple of nervous laughter moved through the room. But Dante hadn't rejected the title. He'd only warned them to be discreet. That was as good as permission.

"Kazimir's position is secure," another soldier said, waving a hand dismissively. "He's Viktor's blood."

"Blood matters," Dante agreed. "Kazimir is my nephew. I love him like a son. But blood doesn't teach strategy. Blood doesn't teach patience. Viktor understood that—he spent years training me." He swirled his wine. "I only hope I can serve this family as well as he intended."

Serve. Advise. The words were humble, but Marco heard what was underneath them. Dante was the one who understood business. Dante was the one who could think three moves ahead. Kazimir was... what? A cold bastard who sat in his office and glared at ledgers? A man who had inherited a throne he didn't know how to sit on?

"I'd follow you into anything, Don Moretti," Marco said, and this time he didn't bother to hide the title. "Any of us would."

A murmur of agreement ran through the soldiers. Dante inclined his head with quiet humility.

"You're good men," he said. "All of you. This family is stronger because of your loyalty."

Marco felt a warm glow spread through his chest. This was what leadership looked like. Not cold silence and dismissive orders. Not a boss who barely remembered your name. Dante saw him. Valued him. Made him feel like he was part of something instead of just a hired gun standing in drafty corridors.

He was about to say something more when Dante's gaze shifted, catching something over Marco's shoulder.

“Ah, there you are. The new bride.” Dante rose from his chair. “Piccolina, come here. No need to hide away. You’re one of us now.”

Marco turned.

There she was. The mouse. She stood pressed against the doorframe, her eyes wide and wet, holding herself like she was trying to fold inward and disappear.

Marco remembered his encounter with her in the hallway a few days ago—her silky hair, her smooth cheek, her sweet scent. The memory sent a pleasant pulse through him.

Dante was beckoning her forward. “Easy, easy. No one’s going to bite. Though we may have to feed you more. You’re far too thin.”

The mouse shook her head and stumbled backward.

Dante laughed, shaking his head. "So shy! We must fatten you up, get some color in those cheeks!"

The soldiers joined in, and Marco laughed too until she disappeared down the corridor.

"Poor thing," Dante said, settling back into his chair. "She's terrified of her own shadow."

"She's terrified of everything," Gallo muttered. "Haven't seen a jumpier creature in my life."

"Can you blame her?" Dante's voice shifted, taking on that note of weary sympathy he used whenever he talked about his nephew's burdens. "A young woman, sold into marriage with a man she doesn't know, surrounded by soldiers, unable to speak... It would be difficult for anyone."

"She's a liability," Marco said, the words coming out before he'd fully thought them through. "Sneaking around corners, listening at doors. Last time, I almost hit her with the door."

Dante sighed. "Kazimir is doing his best. But a wife like that... it complicates things."

"A real don would have put her in her place by now," someone muttered—one of the younger soldiers.

Dante held up a hand. "My nephew is young. He's learning. We must be patient with him."

Marco rolled his eyes. Dante was a kind and powerful leader. His only fault was being too soft on his nephew.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The summons came a few weeks later.

Dante's study was warm, firelit, smelling of old books and expensive tobacco. The man himself sat behind his vast desk, his expression grave, his fingers clasped together. He looked tired.

"Marco." He gestured to the chair across from him. "Sit. I need to speak with you about a sensitive matter."

Marco sat. "Of course. Anything, Don Moretti."

"It's about the Zurich files." Dante's voice was heavy. "The family documents I mentioned before—the account numbers, the banking codes. They're in Kazimir's office, and I've been unable to retrieve them. My nephew has become... difficult."

"Difficult how?"

"He's been influenced." Dante spread his hands in weary resignation. "The girl—Elena—she's been spending a great deal of time in his office lately. He keeps her close. I believe she's convinced him that I'm not to be trusted."

Marco's jaw tightened. Of course she had. The little spy, whispering her poison into Kazimir's ear. Turning the Boss against the one man who actually gave a damn about this family.

"She's dangerous," Marco said. "I've been saying it for months."

"And I should have listened." Dante sighed, looking genuinely regretful. "But the damage is done. Those documents contain information that could cripple us if it fell into the wrong hands. But Kazimir... he won't hand them over. He's too proud. Too suspicious."

"What do we do?"

Dante was quiet for a moment. The fire crackled in the hearth. Outside, an engine roared to life—Leo's voice, faint through the walls, barking orders about something at the marina.

"Coincidentally," Dante said slowly, "the Contis have chosen this afternoon to cause trouble at the docks. A shipment was hijacked. Our men are being held. Kazimir will have to leave his office to deal with it personally."

"He’s leaving the office empty?"

"I believe so." Dante met Marco's eyes. "I didn't plan it this way. I would never go behind my nephew's back. But if someone were to... take initiative... to retrieve those documents for the good of the family..."

Marco's heart was pounding. This was it. His chance. His moment to prove himself.

"I'll get them," he said. "The Zurich papers. Whatever else is in there that the little spy might have her hands on."

Dante held up a hand, his expression troubled. "I can't ask you to do that, Marco. It's too dangerous. If Kazimir found out..."

"He won't." Marco was already on his feet. "And even if he did—I'm doing this for the family."

Dante studied him for a long moment. Then he nodded, a slow, solemn dip of the chin. "You're a loyal man, Marco. This family is lucky to have you.”

After he left the office, Marco sent Silvio to try to pick the lock first. Meanwhile, he scoured the maintenance room, where the maids kept their supplies. He remembered seeing a wall of hooks holding spare keys for rooms in the mansion. If he was lucky, he might find the office key there.

And the key was right where he expected it to be. A small brass thing, labeled in neat handwriting: K. Volkov — Office.

Easy, he thought.

Marco pocketed the key and slipped out again, a grin spreading across his face as he went upstairs where Silvio was still picking at the lock.

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“Step aside,” Marco said. “This should do it.”

When he tried the key, it slipped in smoothly. A few seconds later, the lock gave with a soft snick.

"Wow, that was easy," Silvio breathed.

Marco pushed the door open. The office was dark. A massive desk dominated the center of the room, its surface covered in neat stacks of paper. Bookshelves lined one wall. A wardrobe stood in the corner—probably holding spare suits for long nights.

"Start with the desk," Marco said.

They searched in silence. Drawers slid open. Papers rustled. Marco's fingers skimmed over ledger spines and file folders. But he didn’t find the documents Dante had talked about. They were hidden better than Marco had expected.

Then he heard it: a sharp inhale.

Marco straightened. "Did you hear that?"

Silvio went still. "What?"

"Shh."

And there it was again. The barely audible hitch, now coupled with the faintest rustle of fabric.

Marco grinned. The mouse. The little spy. She's in the wardrobe.

She had probably been here the whole time, hiding among Kazimir's suits like the little rat she was. Watching. Listening. Gathering information for whoever had planted her.

Well. This just got more interesting.

Marco moved toward the wardrobe slowly, savoring the anticipation. His footsteps were deliberate, measured—the tread of a hunter who knew his prey had nowhere to run. He could almost smell her fear through the wood.

He pulled the door open.

Eyes. Wide. Terrified. Staring up at him from the darkness.

His smile widened. "Found you."

His hand shot in, tangling in her soft hair, and wrenched. The motion was brutal, pulling her out of the wardrobe like a fish from water, her body hitting the floor with a satisfying thud.

"Look what I found, Silvio." Marco didn't take his eyes off her pale face. Her eyes were already swimming with tears. "Our little mouse was nesting in the boss's suits."

"She heard us," Silvio said, his voice pitching higher. "She heard everything."

"Seems she did." Marco kept his grip on her hair, dragging her to her knees. The position was right—submissive, kneeling, exactly where she belonged. "The boss isn't here, topolina. So why are you here all alone, hmm?"

She scrambled, pushing at his wrist with those weak little hands. Her legs kicked. One of her flailing feet caught him in the shin before Silvio grabbed her ankle, pinning it to the floor.

"She's going to be a problem," Silvio complained.

"She's already a problem." Marco leaned down, bringing his face close to hers. The smell of her—clean soap, something faintly floral, the salt of tears—wafted into his nostrils. "What did you hear, huh? What did those little ears catch?"

She shook her head frantically. Tears were streaming down her cheeks. She tried to sign—those stupid little hand gestures she used instead of speaking, flailing and pathetic—but Marco caught her wrist and slammed it against the floor.

After some discussion, the two of them decided to move her to the cellar.

Marco had found the space during his first year in the mansion, exploring the narrow servants' passages while avoiding a perimeter check. Low ceiling. Bare bulb swinging from a cord. Concrete floor stained with decades of damp and rust. Sound didn't travel up from here; the walls were thick. It made a great place for interrogation.

Vieri and Connor were already waiting. Marco texted them to wait here after he captured the girl.

"Took you long enough," Vieri grunted, looking up from his cigarette.

"Had a complication." Marco shoved the girl forward. She stumbled, the tape around her wrists throwing off her balance, and fell to her knees on the concrete. "She was in the office. Hiding."

Vieri's eyes narrowed. "Wasn't the office empty?"

"It wasn't. She heard us talking." Marco circled her crumpled form, enjoying the way she tried to track his movements, her head swiveling like a cornered animal's. "So now we have two problems. Find the papers she stole, and find out what she knows."

"Does she have them on her?"

"Haven't searched her yet. But we know she's a little thief." Marco crouched in front of her. The tape was digging into her cheeks, pulling at the corners of her mouth. He peeled it off with a slow, deliberate motion, watching her gasp as the adhesive tore free. The skin beneath was bright red, already irritated. "Where did you put them, topolina? The Zurich papers. The family files."

She shook her head, her entire body wracked with tremors. Her mouth formed silent, desperate words. ‘No, please! I don't—I don't—’

"Please what?"

But Marco didn’t wait, he reached out and tore the front of her dress.

The grey wool gave easily, ripping from neckline to waist with a sound like old paper. Underneath, she wore a thin chemise. It clung to her skin, outlining her ribs, her small chest, and the flat plane of her stomach.

Marco felt himself smile.

"Gotta search her," Silvio said from somewhere behind him. The kid's voice was too eager. "She might have hidden something under her clothes."

The excuse. The beautiful, flimsy excuse that turned what happened next into duty instead of what it really was. Marco didn't need the excuse—he'd never needed it—but he appreciated the convenience.

The first blow was almost gentle. The back of his hand across her ribs, not hard enough to break anything, just hard enough to hurt. She folded around the pain, a choked cry punching out of her throat—a real sound, not that pathetic keening whine. A proper sound.

There she is. More. I want more of that.

"Where are the Zurich files?" Marco's voice was conversational. "Dante needs them back. Family documents. You had no right to take them."

His fist drove into her side. A real blow this time. The sound she made was primal.

The violence became a rhythm. Marco stepped back to let Vieri take a turn—the older man's slap across her stomach made her vomit bile onto the concrete, and Marco watched the puddle spread with detached interest—then stepped in again when Connor's knee connected with her side.

Through it all, she gave them nothing. Just those silent, shaking denials that could have meant anything. The beauty of a mute witness was that her silence could be whatever you needed it to be. Guilt. Defiance. Stubbornness. It didn't matter. Marco could read whatever he wanted into those trembling lips.

Then something changed.

Her eyes. They were going somewhere else. Somewhere far away. The terror was still there, but it was receding, pulling back like a tide leaving the shore. Her gaze fixed on a crack in the ceiling, and her face went slack. Blank. Empty.

"The fuck?" Vieri scowled, grabbing her chin and forcing her face toward him. "Is she dead?"

Marco snorted. "No, she just does that. Little bitch can't even face what she deserves."

The interrogation had failed, but the search hadn't. He crouched beside her. His fingers found the hem of the chemise, the thin cotton soft against his calloused palms. He pulled it up, exposing the pale skin of her stomach. Her ribs, already bruising in ugly purples and blacks that spread like dark clouds.

"Nothing," Vieri muttered, his hands joining Marco's—rougher, less careful, squeezing where Marco had only pressed. "She's got nothing on her."

"Check the dress," Connor said. "Maybe she hid something in the seams."

The two older men checked.

But Marco wasn't really paying attention anymore. His hands were still on her, moving without direction, tracing the landscape of her body like a cartographer mapping conquered territory. The bruises were spreading—he could feel them developing under his fingertips, hot and tender. By tomorrow, she'd be purple from neck to waist.

Good.

He wanted her to remember. Every time she moved, every time she breathed, every time she looked in a mirror, she'd see what happened to little mice who forgot their place.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Marco was still half-drunk, his mouth tasting like ash and stale whiskey, when Leo appeared in the doorway of the common room.

"Boss wants you all in the west courtyard. Now."

"Now?" Marco rubbed his eyes. "What's it about?"

Leo didn't answer. He just turned and walked away.

Marco's stomach tightened. Something was off. Leo usually gave more information, even if it was just a clipped sentence or two. The complete silence was unusual.

But who were they to disobey?

Marco pulled on his jacket and followed the rest of the men after Leo. Their boots echoed on the stone floors. The mansion was quiet in the grey morning light—too quiet. No servants. No soldiers. Just the distant sound of wind rattling the windows.

The west courtyard was a broad, open space enclosed by high stone walls. Traditionally, it was where Viktor Volkov had executed traitors. Marco had heard the stories—the old Don, standing in the center of the stones, dispensing justice with a sword, a pistol, or his bare hands—all depending on his mood. But that was Viktor. Kazimir was different. He didn't have his grandfather's fire.

At least, that's what everyone had always believed until he saw the scene.

There were soldiers in the courtyard. A dozen at least. All of them standing in rigid formation, their faces carefully blank. In the center of the stones, on his knees, was Silvio.

The boy’s hands were bound behind his back. His face was a mess of tears and snot, his eyes red-rimmed and wild.

Marco's step faltered.

"Marco." Leo's voice was flat. "Join the others."

"What's this about?"

Leo didn't answer. He simply gestured toward the line of soldiers.

Marco took his place. Gallo was there, near the front, his face pale beneath its scars. He wouldn't meet Marco's eyes.

Then the door to the main house opened, and Kazimir Volkov stepped into the courtyard. He was wearing black. Black shirt, black trousers, black boots polished to a mirror shine. His sleeves were rolled up, exposing forearms corded with muscle and marked with old scars. His face was still cold and distant, but something in the way he moved felt different tonight. He walked to the center of the courtyard, her gaze sweeping the gathered men.

"Last night," Kazimir said, "robbers entered my office. They broke the lock. Do any of you know anything?"

The words hung in the air like a death sentence. All of the men present stared at their boots.

"Kid." Kazimir's voice didn't change as he turned to look at Silvio. "You were one of them."

Silvio was crying openly now. "Boss, please—I didn't—it wasn't my idea, I swear—"

"Who gave the orders?"

A hesitation. Silvio's eyes found Marco, just for a second, then darted away. "No-Nobody! We weren't supposed to—she was just there—Marco said she was a spy—we were looking for the papers—"

"Enough." Kazimir reached into his jacket and drew a pistol.

Silvio's babbling dissolved into incoherent sobs. "Please, Boss, please, I'll do anything—"

The shot was deafening.

The boy’s body crumpled. A red flower bloomed between his eyes, spreading outward like ink in water. His mouth was still open, frozen mid-plea.

Marco couldn't move. He couldn't breathe. This wasn't happening. This wasn't real. Kazimir didn't do this. Kazimir was cold and distant but soft—everyone said so, everyone knew it. He didn't execute people. He didn't even raise his voice.

"Vieri. Conor." Kazimir's voice hadn't changed. "Step forward."

They did. Vieri was shaking—the big man's face had gone grey, his hands trembling at his sides. Connor looked like he might bolt, but there was nowhere to run. The courtyard was surrounded by soldiers—Kazimir's soldiers.

The executions were quick. Methodical. Kazimir didn't offer them a chance to explain. Didn't let them speak. He simply raised the pistol and fired, one shot each, and their bodies joined Silvio's on the blood-slicked stone.

Then Kazimir turned to Marco.

"On your knees."

Marco's legs gave out. He dropped to the cold stone, the impact jarring his bones. His mind was racing, scrambling for something—anything—that might save him. Dante. He could invoke Dante. The Don would protect him. The Don would explain. This was all a misunderstanding, a mission for the good of the family, and Dante would—

But the fury burning in Kazimir’s eyes made Marco’s words freeze in his throat.

"You entered my office. You dared to touch what was mine. You think you can climb over my head," Kazimir growled, taking a step closer, then another.

He was standing directly in front of Marco now, the barrel of the pistol inches from his forehead. Marco could see the dark hollow of the muzzle, the faint wisp of smoke still curling from the tip.

"You were wrong."

The word hit Marco like a physical blow. Wrong. He had been wrong about Kazimir. Volkov's blood ran in his veins: Viktor had been a monster—everyone knew the stories. So how had Marco convinced himself that the grandson would be any different?

Kazimir's grip tightened on the gun.

The last thing Marco saw was Kazimir's eyes: grey as a blizzard, empty of mercy, empty of everything except a cold, implacable purpose.

A wolf pup is still a wolf, Marco thought. I was the fool for not seeing that.

The trigger pulled.

And the jackal's due was paid in blood.