The Prototype

65. Tempest's Temptation

MARCELLUS

Morning settled over the main building in a golden hush, sunlight spilling through the windows, casting long, warm beams across the floors. The air thick with the scent of freshly brewed coffee and the aroma of breakfast wafting from the kitchen. The quiet hum of conversations from the dining room was drowned out by the weight of my own thoughts.

Standing outside the double doors of the dining room, watching as the others filtered in one by one. Some nodded in acknowledgment, others greeted me with the same polite respect they always did. I barely responded. My mind was elsewhere.

On the other side of the doors, Godmother, standing with her usual air of quiet authority, her sharp eyes surveying the morning proceedings like a woman who spent her life surrounded by men who commanded power. Beside her, Uncle Galilei adjusting the cuffs of his tailored suit, his head tipping in my direction in silent recognition.

For the past two weeks, the estate been a hive of controlled chaos. Every open space been consumed by the relentless preparations for the annual Galilei and Gillian charity Gala event. An event that, on the surface, appeared to be a noble gathering of the elite—philanthropists, aristocrats, and esteemed businessmen. But beneath the thin veneer of generosity, this was something else entirely.

Alliances solidify with the stroke of a pen. An evening where my peers—the rulers of their respective empires—come to seal our 'friendships' with numbers stretching into the millions. Deals made over glasses of whiskey, political favors exchanged between hushed conversations, and when the night ends, millions of dollars would move like clockwork into accounts that would never be traced. A grand fucking spectacle of wealth, control, and influence, wrapped up in tuxedos and polished smiles.

Over these weeks, my time been consumed with making sure everything is to my standards. Making sure invitations and pamphlets were sent, ensuring every detail meticulously accounted for. Making sure members of the Galilei Mafia knew their responsibility for security, surveillance and protection of the estate and every guest vetted and approved, their every move—potential and unpredictable move—leading up to the gala scrutinized under my control.

And yet, for the past two weeks, Control, the one thing I wielded with ruthless precision, been slowly slipping through my fingers like goddamn sand. My patience been whittling down to nothing, my restraint stretching thin.

And it's all because of her.

As if conjured from my thoughts, Tempest came into view.

Moving through the space with that dangerous, unrushed grace, a living contradiction of soft and lethal. The silk pajama set clinging to her body. The pants hugging her hips, accentuating the curve of her ass in a way making my fingers twitch with the urge to grab her, to feel that curve, to mark it. The blouse scandalously unbuttoned at the top, revealing just enough cleavage to fuck with my head, teasing me with the promise of what I couldn't have.

For two weeks I been in fucking hell.

Tempest has mastered the art of silent, merciless torture. Subtle, cruel things. Wearing clothing that molded to her like a second skin, garments that cling to every dip, every curve, every soft, fucking perfect inch of her body. Silk fabrics that weren't just fabric—they were a goddamn weapon, taunting me, reminding me with every whisper of movement that they got to touch what I couldn't.

Because she remained untouchable.

For two weeks since we'd returned from Italy, I haven't touched her. Haven't Kissed her. Haven't had her the way I needed.

Not a fucking thing.

And she knows exactly what she's doing.

Playing her game with calculated ease, pretending to be oblivious to my torment, but that glint in her eye—sharp, knowing—mocking my restraint. Trying to see how much longer I can control myself before I snapped.