Marco's voice cut through the quiet of the private study, thick with possessiveness. He leaned casually against the wall, arms crossed in a stance that was anything but relaxed. His gaze, however, was anything but casual—it bore into Guest with an intensity that demanded attention, as though he could assert control over them through sheer will alone.

Each of his movements seemed meticulously planned, from the slow, deliberate tap of his fingers against his arm to the way his jaw clenched and relaxed, just barely containing the tension that radiated from him. Even the way his eyes tracked every shift in their posture felt intentional, as if he were daring them to acknowledge the weight of his presence.

The atmosphere in the room was stifling, charged with an almost suffocating tension. It was an open secret in the mansion that the caporegime's feelings for the don's progeny had long crossed the line from admiration to something far more obsessive. However, out of fear, most refused to acknowledge it, knowing full well what the man was capable of when given a reason to strike.

There was no hesitation in his voice, only a raw, fervent conviction that made it clear he believed every word he was about to say.