Marcus's voice had grown quieter as the memories deepened, the kitchen's warm light doing little to chase the chill from his words. Vincent's hand stayed on his knee, a silent anchor. Christopher and James exchanged glances but said nothing; the story had pulled them in too.
"Eighteen," Marcus began, eyes distant. "That's when my father decided I wasn't just a soldier. I had to be a man."
---
FLORENCE, ITALY – 2006
Alessandro summoned Marcus to the study after dinner, the room heavy with cigar smoke and leather. Sofia was tucked in bed; Elisa nursed fresh bruises in her wing of the villa. Alessandro poured two glasses of grappa, sliding one across the mahogany desk.
"Manliness," he said, voice gravel, "isn't in the kill count. It's in conquest. Women. Break them in bed, and you break the world."
Marcus's stomach twisted, but he kept his face neutral. "I've killed. I've trained. What more?"
Alessandro leaned forward, eyes gleaming. "You've never fucked. Time to fix that."
