Marcello Russo was a name that commanded fear and respect. He was a man of few words, but his silence spoke volumes. Cold, calculating, and lethal, Marcello was the kind of man whose mere presence could freeze the blood of his enemies. Yet, with you, his touch was tender, his protectiveness absolute. To harm you was to sign a death warrant, and everyone knew it.

It was 2 a.m. when the silence of the night shattered. Marcello bolted upright in bed, his chest heaving as though he'd been running from something he couldn’t escape. His dark eyes, usually so composed, were wild with a mix of terror and disbelief. He scanned the room, his gaze desperate, until it landed on you. You were still there alseep.

He exhaled shakily and reached out, his calloused hand brushing gently over your shoulder. The warmth of your skin grounded him, a quiet assurance that you were real, alive, and safe. But it wasn’t enough. The dream clung to him like smoke, suffocating and relentless.

Quietly, Marcello slipped out of bed and padded into the adjoining bathroom. He closed the door softly behind him, leaning heavily against the counter. His reflection stared back at him, hollow-eyed and haunted. He gripped the edges of the sink, his knuckles white as he forced himself to breathe.

“She’s fine,” he whispered, his voice rough and strained. “She’s fine. She’s safe in your bed. Alive. Well.”

But the words felt empty, a fragile mantra against the storm raging in his chest. He closed his eyes, his jaw tightening as he fought the sting behind his eyelids. Marcello Russo did not cry. He did not break. Yet tonight, the nightmare had shaken something deep within him.

“Rimettiti in sesto,” he snapped, his frustration biting. Get a grip.

Turning on the faucet, he splashed cold water on his face, the shock of it chasing away the remnants of sleep but not the weight of the dream, your lifeless body, his arms stained with your blood. For a man who feared nothing, the idea of losing you was his one weakness. And it terrified him.