January 26, 1986 — Moscow, Russia
The white marble reflected the warm glow of the crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. Everything in that hall of the Hotel Moskva was designed to impress, dominate, or corrupt. Behind the imperial façade hid a well-rehearsed performance: politics disguised as luxury, power masked as sophistication. And Marco Bianchi, who had grown up around theaters like that, could read them instantly.
He moved calmly, hands tucked into the pockets of his dark coat, scanning the room without really looking at anything. His blue eyes drifted over designer dresses and crystal glasses, never settling. Beside him, silent, walked Ron — his secretary, a beta with a sharp tongue and even sharper manners. Three more men followed them, armed, camouflaged among the guests in flawless suits and soulless stares.
The meeting had been exclusive, crafted to hide filth beneath layers of diplomacy, million-dollar figures, and purchased silences. The guest of honor, Alpha Senator Sasha Ivanovich, had just delivered a speech as measured as it was empty. An ode to the unity of the Soviet bloc, to progress, to a supposed openness toward the West.
— Fine oratory — Marco remarked with a precise smile as he approached the senator, who stood beside his wife, an omega with delicate features and a perfectly restrained smile.
— Thank you, thank you — the man replied, his Russian accent thick as the snow blanketing Moscow —. It was… practice.
His English was rudimentary, but enough to seal deals. Without asking permission, the senator laid a heavy hand on Marco's shoulder. A paternal, possessive, territorial gesture. The pheromones he released made his intent crystal clear: to mark.
Marco barely clenched his jaw, swallowing the instinctive recoil beneath the well-pressed fabric of his suit. The disgust didn't come just from the touch, but from what it symbolized: control, power, territory claimed.
— The IlCorvo franchise… good business. Needs strong men. Ferreti-Bianchi legacy… powerful — Ivanovich went on, raising his glass —. With a few… pawns, Russia opens the doors for you.
Marco arched a brow, with that expression of his — poisonous and elegant — as if the senator's words had been a brilliant revelation.
— That's the goal — he replied softly.
But in his head, only one thought echoed:
Fucking Ferreti bastards.
All of them. A plague wrapped in fine suits. And especially him.
— Did you come with the Ferreti? — the omega asked then, her tone sweet, her eyes curious.
The name hit the back of Marco's neck like a cold dart. The Ferreti?
— Ferreti? — he echoed, lowering his gaze toward her, making sure his voice didn't betray the acid rising in his throat.
She nodded, smiling as if she hadn't just plunged a dagger into him. With a delicate gesture, she pointed toward a group at the far end of the room.
And there he was.
Andrea Ferreti.
The youngest son of the Ferreti empire. The alpha Marco hated most in the world. The same one who, in another life — buried under layers of pride — had been his first mistake. His first secret.
Andrea wore a charcoal gray suit, perfectly tailored. Over it, a long wool coat, open like a royal cape. His golden brown hair fell over his forehead with calculated mess. His eyes — that wild gold Marco had never been able to erase from memory — were fixed on the glass he spun between his fingers. He wasn't looking at anyone. He didn't need to.
Andrea didn't waste words or gestures. He didn't have to. His presence alone was enough to make Marco tense down to his bones.
— He's here too, sir — Ron whispered, tugging lightly at Marco's jacket. A small, discreet movement, but full of intent.
Marco said nothing. He just narrowed his eyes.
Andrea Ferreti. In Moscow.
Breathing his same air again. Strutting around with that same arrogant grace that burned.
A week ago, in Chicago, Andrea had tried to kill him. A disguised attempt. A car that didn't explode in time. A "casual" fire. A warning dressed as a mistake. The usual: a cursed game of hunters, two alphas intoxicated with history and venom.
Let's see who falls first, Marco thought. It was always that.
A savage dance between death and desire, with no safety net.
He allowed himself a faint smile. Not of pleasure — of strategy. Andrea was a clever bastard. He knew how to move. He calculated every step. But Marco was no less.
And this was nothing more than another move.
Another round.
Marco dipped his head slightly, keeping a polite smile for the senator and his omega.
— He's here with me — he said in a calm, almost indifferent tone.
Ivanovich raised an eyebrow, visibly thrown by the response. For a second, the air seemed to thicken. Marco offered no further explanation. He gave a sharp, precise nod of farewell.
— Excuse me. I'm going to speak with my partner.
The word caught in his throat. "Partner" tasted like poison, but he used it anyway, wearing that practiced smile that never reached his eyes. He turned away, walking off without looking back, crossing the ballroom with firm steps, swallowing the heavy perfume and hypocrisy hanging in the air.
— Sir… — Ron hurried after him, his voice low and tight —. Please, don't. Not here. The whole Ferreti thing has already caused enough of a stir…
Marco didn't respond. Or chose not to. The pulse in his temples echoed with barely contained rage, mixed with that filthy attraction that burned into his bones. He walked straight toward the group where Andrea stood, surrounded by alphas. All wearing expensive suits. All with calculated gazes. But none like him.
The first thing he felt was the scent.
Mint. Cold, clean, provocative. An impossible smell to ignore. Like a signature Andrea left in the air on purpose — a way of saying I'm here. Marco narrowed his eyes. The scent hit him like a low blow. It burned in his chest.
— Got a moment, Andrea? — he said, lacing the tension with disdain.
Andrea looked up. And smiled. Not just any smile. That smile. Soft. Arrogant. Perfect.
— Of course.
The handshake was exact. Formally correct, but charged with something else. Beneath their palms: unfinished history. Friction. Pride. The past.
They stepped just slightly aside. The side corridor was enough — dim lighting, the noise of the ballroom reduced to a distant buzz. There, where the shadow softened faces but not instincts, they met again.
— To what do I owe the questionable pleasure of your attention? — Andrea asked, in that calm tone that always sounded just above it all. As if Marco didn't hurt. As if Marco didn't matter.
Marco's smile was a razor blade.
— What are you doing here?
— I'm a free man. I go where I want.
— You're here to screw me over.
Blunt. Unfiltered.
Andrea tilted his head. Far from offended, he looked amused.
— The world doesn't revolve around an alpha with a god complex.
Their eyes clashed. Blue against gold. The past came back like a poorly buried knife. Every word, every breath between them, had an edge. Neither yielded. Neither blinked.
Marco felt that old craving to rip the calm off Andrea's face. To see that perfect mask twisted by fear, by defeat. He wanted to destroy him — with his hands, his body, his silence. With everything.
But he inhaled deeply and looked away, as if control still belonged to him.
— Maybe the world doesn't revolve around me — he murmured —, but yours seems to. Still in love like a stupid teenager, Andrea?
Andrea smiled, slowly. Like someone accepting a punch that no longer hurt.
— The past is just that — the past. I won't deny it. But you… — he dropped his gaze, scanning Marco's body with a slowness that oozed challenge —. You're an alpha. A lousy one, by the way. Not even good in a fight… or in bed.
Marco let out a hollow laugh, sharp as a threat.
— You won't have a bed to test that… when I bury you.
Andrea shrugged with casual ease, as if they were talking about the weather.
— Sometimes you forget who I am. — He checked his watch —. A Ferreti.
Ablink.
The hotel lights flickered once. Then went out.
Darkness.
Marco barely had time to turn. The last thing he saw were Andrea's golden eyes, glowing in the gloom.
Then Ron tackled him from the side, shielding him just as the gunshots erupted.
— Get down! — someone roared in Russian.
Hell broke loose in seconds. Screams, shattering glass, overturned tables, panicked footsteps. Marco heard the whistle of a bullet grazing his face, felt the hot sting across his cheek. Another tore through his left shoulder. He didn't know if the blood was his or Ron's, who kept pushing him as if the world were falling apart.
A stampede. A hunt.
His bodyguards emerged from the crowd, armed, desperately searching for him. The air was thick with scent: sweat, gunpowder, expensive cologne, alpha pheromones. Marco's body trembled with rage and adrenaline.
— This way!! — one of his men shouted, carving a path with bullets if needed.
They descended like a single wounded beast toward the first floor. Blood stained the marble, footsteps left warlike prints behind them. Marco heard everything in a haze: the gunfire, the screams, the echo of his own breath.
When they finally exited through a side door, Marco was gasping. The wound in his shoulder pounded like a drum. He turned and saw Ron collapse against the limousine, arm soaked in blood, suit in shreds.
— Crazy bastard… — Ron muttered, struggling to stay upright.
Marco caught him with one hand, helping him into the car. The white leather seat was stained red instantly. He himself was covered in blood. He took a deep breath. It hurt. Everything hurt. His body, his mind, his fucking pride.
A light flickered.
Power came back.
And Marco looked up.
In a window on the first floor, behind sheer curtains, Andrea was watching him. Leaning against the frame, a lit cigarette in hand. His shirt splattered with blood. That same smile.
Calm. Satisfied. Untouched.
As if this had all been a game.
One he had just won.
Marco clenched his fists. A furious beat pulsed in his ears. Bastard.
But this time…
This wasn't going to end like that.
He climbed into the limousine, slammed the door shut, and dropped his head back against the seat.
— Fucking headache — he muttered, as the car pulled away through the distant wail of sirens that had arrived too late.