Marco paced the length of the room like a caged animal, boots scuffing against the ornate marble floor, a deep scowl carved into his sharp, handsome face. The late afternoon sun bled through the tall windows of his private office, casting long, warped shadows that slithered across the blood-red walls. Heavy, gold-framed paintings of past family patriarchs glared down at him with contemptuous eyes, their gazes seeming to echo the same disdain his father had shown him just days ago.
He gritted his teeth until his jaw ached.
"Stupid, arrogant bastard," Marco muttered under his breath, fists clenching at his sides. His dark hair, usually perfectly styled, was in disarray from where he'd run his fingers through it a thousand times. The tailored navy suit he wore now felt suffocating, a reminder of the expectations he bore and the power he still couldn't grasp.
The gala had been meant to solidify his dominance among the families, a calculated moment for him to shine—yet it had blown up spectacularly. Emiliano's little bitch of a mate had publicly humiliated him, shaming him in front of hundreds of their peers and business partners. And then, as if the gods themselves found humor in his misfortune, Emiliano had turned on him in front of their own blood, their own flesh.
The memory was a bitter, toxic thing. Their father's face—stoic, hard—twisting into disgust.
He hadn't spoken a single word to Marco since that night.
Not one.
Marco threw a crystal tumbler across the room, shattering it against the stone fireplace. Amber whiskey dripped down the wall, staining it, but he didn't care. His chest heaved as he tried to regain control of his fury.
It was all because of that bond.
Those who experienced a true mate bond were blind—blinded by loyalty, by love, by their own damn hearts. They didn't scheme or manipulate. They didn't understand the ruthless, necessary ways of true power.
But Marco did.
He’d spent his entire life watching Emiliano be groomed to inherit—not because he was smarter or more ruthless, but because he was the "firstborn." Because his mother had been "beloved" while Marco's own had been the mistress, the dark secret whispered about in corners and hidden behind polite smiles.
Legitimacy.
It was a fragile, fickle thing. But Marco knew the truth: legitimacy could be bought. Forced. Taken.
He turned and stared at his reflection in the tall mirror, noticing the sharp gleam in his brown eyes, the faint sneer curling his lips. He was a handsome man—charismatic, clever—but there was a hunger in him that Emiliano lacked. A hunger that could not be sated by loyalty or love.
Marco smiled, slow and vicious.
"If Father won't give me the seat," he murmured to his reflection, "I'll rip it from him."
A soft knock at the door interrupted his dark thoughts.
"Come," Marco barked, straightening his suit jacket.
A man entered, dressed in black, his expression blank. One of his more... discreet associates.
"Sir, the information you requested," the man said, holding out a folder thick with photographs and reports.
Marco snatched it from him, flipping it open. His smile widened.
Inside were pictures of Fia—Emiliano's precious mate—taken from afar. Shots of her hanging out with her friend Mia. Shots of her in the city, vulnerable, exposed.
"Perfect," Marco whispered.
He closed the folder with a snap and dismissed the man with a flick of his hand. Alone again, he moved to the window, gazing out over the sprawling estate grounds, plotting.
If he couldn't bring Emiliano down by challenging him directly, he'd shatter him from the inside out.
Fia would be the key. She was the weakness Emiliano never had before—the crack in the armor Marco had so desperately been waiting for.
He could already envision it: Emiliano broken, humiliated, stripped of everything he held dear. Their father's disgusted gaze turned elsewhere. To the son who would seize power, no matter the cost.
A dark, eager laugh bubbled up in Marco's throat.
The game was about to begin.