The Italian Princess

Chapter Three: What is Love?

Bella

The task ahead was daunting, taking out Jena Dawn and Martin Brooks before making a move on Daniel Samuels was a breeze. Puerto Rico's increased security measures for Samuels meant we were stepping into dangerous territory. A misstep could be fatal.

Working with Marco on this mission, we flew to Texas to observe Samuels' routines. The first night was steeped in silence, a heavy tension hanging between us. Marco's demeanor had changed since our flight; he kept his distance, creating an invisible barrier that was hard to ignore. Our rooms were just feet apart, and at one point, I found myself pressing my ear against the adjoining door, trying to decipher his thoughts from the muffled sounds within.

From our vantage point near Samuels' office, the security was as tight as expected. "What do you see?" Marco's voice pulled me back to the task at hand.

"Three men at the door, two inside, two at the back, and two in the car by the building," I reported, scanning the area.

"Impressive," he commented, taking a sip of his drink.

"I know," I replied, feeling the weight of the mission pressing in.

Marco's question caught me off guard. "What has you so uptight?"

His observation was sharper than I'd given him credit for. "You're obviously high, and I don't want you messing this up for us," I retorted, my concern laced with a tinge of frustration.

"For us? This isn't about us. It's about formalities. If I were in charge, the union would've been enough," he said, a hint of defeat in his voice.

"Is that what you want, to run the business?" I probed, curious despite myself.

"You always seem to be plotting something," he remarked, a deflecting edge to his tone.

"Because I am," I admitted with a smug laugh, masking my true feelings with bravado.

He teased, "Wait until I tell everyone the Italian Princess interrogated me."

His words stung, reminding me of a label I despised. I remained silent, hating that I was known by that moniker, resenting how it reduced me to a mere character in this sprawling family drama. Marco seemed to sense my discomfort and let the conversation drop, the night once again settling into a heavy, thoughtful silence.

Marco's presence was a study in contradictions. There were moments when he seemed distant, almost like he was wrestling with his own demons, creating a tension that was difficult to navigate. Yet, as we spent days together cooped up in the car, staking out, a different side of him started to emerge, one that was surprisingly easier to be around.

"Stop putting your feet up on the dash, you're drawing attention to us," he chided.

"I am not. My feet are small and they can't see," I countered, half-asleep but unwilling to concede the point.

"Your feet look like a deformed baby," he retorted jokingly.

I couldn't help but laugh, surprised by his humor. "So, we're going there, huh? You bite your lip as if you're auditioning for an R&B boy band," I shot back, joining in the banter.

His laughter was genuine, a sound I hadn't expected to hear in our current situation. His tattoo, running from his neck to his fingers, suddenly seemed less intimidating, more a part of who he was.

"You notice me biting my lip, huh?" he asked, amusement in his voice.

"I do, and it's annoying," I said, my attention momentarily caught by some movement near the house we were surveilling.