Loving Marcello

Chapter Forty

Okay, so, I'm wrapping up this story. As fun as it's been writing it, I feel like I've been dragging it out too long, so I apologize for that. There will only be a few more chapters.

After me having a tiny heart attack, Marcello assures me that we don't have to get married, and he just said that to get my dad off his back. The relief hits me, but I can't ignore the disappointment that comes with it.

What would it be like to have a husband?

Is it nice to have someone to depend on?

Someone that will always be there for you? Someone to care for you?

Or is it all just a lie?

I always wanted Derek to propose to me. After all, we'd been dating for years. But within just a short amount of time, I feel a closer connection to Marcello than I ever did with Derek.

I can't help but to be confused with this situation.

Do I want Marcello to propose? I'm not sure, he's still kind of a new character in my list of people. He's a newer addition. Yet, I'm more familiar with him than anyone else.

I have a closer bind with him than I thought I would have when we first met.

At the time, he was just some stranger trying to strangle me, but now, he's so much more.

It still feels weird to think about how I feel towards him.

Love.

I've never been too comfortable with that concept.

I guess it's the cliche "love was only made to hurt people" line. I don't trust love. I don't trust myself to love.

But I trust Marcello. I trust him more than I trust myself even.

I let myself spiral down a spindly path that leads to when Marcello all but tricked me to see his house for the first time.

My gullible self didn't know we were even going to his house until the last minute. I'd woken up in my hotel room and stumbled upon Marcello who offered to pursue his passion in touring me around Italy.

That couldn't have been an accident. I'd ran into him in the same exact spot for a solid three days. I still can't rack my brain for a reason as to why he was so interested in me.

A tourist girl from the U.S. visiting Italy, pretty common.

Perhaps it was the plane ride. Which I still don't understand the reasoning behind him being on the same plane as me. Does an Italian mafia leader not own a private plane.

Maybe I need to stop watching all the mafia movies on Netflix.

Now I've just gone down one of the many rabbit holes my brain is good at creating.

I sigh, deciding to shut my thoughts down.

We're still cleaning up, but the damage isn't so bad. Just some holes in furniture from the bullets, some in the walls, but we're leaving that to a professional.

I sigh, taking a seat on the new couch, frowning. I like the other recliner better. Too bad it's just a pile of cotton from getting mauled last night.

What did they even do? Why would they rip open a couch?

I sigh in frustration, getting up and heading to the kitchen, where I find Marcello sitting at a bar stool, munching on a bag of cheetos.

I watch him in amusement, then take a seat next to him to snatch a cheeto from the bag.

"You took one of my cheetos." Marcello says with a raised eyebrow and a look of mock disappointment.

"So what if I did?" I ask challengingly.

"I'll get my revenge when I'm done eating." He winks, popping another cheeto into his mouth.

"Suit yourself." I shrug, hopping from my stool and skipping to raid the fridge.

My eyes land on pickles, but as I'm reaching for them, fingers dig into my sides as I'm lifted into the air.

"Marcello, put me down!" I demand as I'm thrown over his shoulder.

"Nope." He chimes.

"Yes!" I exclaim.

"No." Is his response.

"Yes." I reply defiantly.

"Yes." He chuckles.

"No...WAIT!" I begin, but realize that he's tricked me.

"Too late, you've already agreed with me!" Marcello sings, trying to glance back to see my face.

Before we can both see it, a wall seems to appear in front of us.

We both crash into the wall, falling to ground.

Marcello groans, probably at my flailing elbow that connects with his bicep, which I'm 103% sure hurt me more than it hurt him.

Poor Marcello isn't used to crashing into walls, but I'm pretty much a pro at it, so I recover quickly.

"And that's what you get for being a brat." I say triumphantly, planting my hands on my hips.

"Ugh." He gives another groan as he climbs to his feet and rubs his arm. "What is up with that elbow?"

"I don't sharpen this bad boy every night for no reason." I say jokingly, patting my elbow.

"I wouldn't be surprised if you actually did." He grumbles, still rubbing his arm, giving me a mock childish glare.

I roll my eyes, "Don't be such a big baby."

"I can't help it." He whines back, turning his face away, but I catch the smirk.

And it's in this moment I decide;

I want to marry this man.