The Mafia King of Philadelphia: From witness to his doted wife

”If I were you,” the man in black said, unbothered, ”I’d save my energy.”

She didn’t. She fought harder, and when she managed to spit square in the face of the man holding her left arm, his hand came up fast, ready to strike her across the face for it, until the man in black caught his wrist mid-swing.

”Hey.” His voice stayed even, but there was warning in it now. ”Not the pretty face. You don’t get to ruin that.”

That didn’t slow her down either. She kept fighting, nails, teeth, everything she had, all the way to the door.

”Daddy!” Her voice cracked wide open, all the arrogance gone out of it now, nothing left but a girl calling for her father. ”Daddy, don’t let them take me! Please!”

Marcel lunged forward, some half-formed instinct to stop it, to do something, and one of the men shoved him back hard enough that he stumbled into the wall. By the time he’d caught his footing, they were already gone, Aliya’s screaming fading down the hall and then swallowed by the street outside.

Don Capri stood frozen for a moment. Then he wasn’t frozen anymore he was sweeping a lamp off the side table, sending glass shattering across the floor, hands raking through his hair as his mind scrambled for anything, any deal, any name he could call.

That was when the door opened again.

A different set of men this time. Dark suits, no rush in their movements, silver badges pinned at their collars that caught the light just enough to read.

Kessler.

The men moved past Don Capri like he wasn’t even worth their attention, straight for Marcel, hands closing around his arms before he’d even finished registering that they were there.

”Hey,” He barely got the word out before they were already pulling him toward the door.

Elena rushed forward, one hand pressed to her chest, the other reaching for her son. ”What does Viktor want with my son?” Her voice shook, but she planted herself in front of the men anyway, refusing to move. When one of them shoved her aside, she stumbled but came back just as fast, chin lifted, eyes blazing.

”I’m still Mrs. Kessler. The late Don Kessler’s wife. You will show me some respect.”

Nothing in their faces changed. They didn’t so much as slow down.

”Don’t worry, Mother.” Marcel let them pull him along without much resistance, almost bored by the whole thing.

”Viktor can’t kill me. He promised our father that much.” He gave her a small, tired smile, the kind meant to reassure. ”He’ll just yell. Threaten. Do nothing, same as always.”

It wasn’t the first time. Viktor had had him picked up before, locked away for a night or two, roughed up just enough to make a point, and then let go once whatever storm was passing had passed.

This felt no different. Just another cycle, another lesson Marcel was fairly sure he’d survive to ignore again later.

They loaded him into the van without much ceremony. The doors slammed shut, and the engine turned over, and Elena was left standing in the wreckage of Don Capri’s shattered lamp, watching the taillights disappear down the street with a fear in her chest that Marcel’s easy confidence hadn’t managed to touch at all.

—-

The cell had been scrubbed clean, floor still faintly damp in the corner where Duncan’s blood had pooled hours earlier. No trace of it left now. Just the swinging bulb and the empty chair, waiting.

Viktor stood with his hands loose at his sides, patient, unbothered by the wait.

The door scraped open, and Marcel was hauled in, stumbling once before catching his footing, and even then he managed a grin.

”Hello, brother.” A beat, mock-correcting himself.

”Big stepbrother. What did I do this time?” He rolled his shoulders like this was routine, like it always had been.

”Come on.... I only told Sienna the truth. You do have a marriage pact. That wasn’t exactly classified information.” His grin widened, needling. ”Unless... were you keeping it a secret, Viktor?”

”You think this is funny.” Viktor’s voice was flat, cold enough that even Marcel’s grin faltered a half-second before he covered it. ”Drugging my wife and almost getting her killed. Is that funny to you too?”

”Drug Sienna?” Marcel’s brows shot up, genuine surprise cracking through the smirk. ”No...I didn’t drug Sienna. Why would I, I want...” He caught himself, swallowed the rest whole. He couldn’t say it. Not the real reason, not here, not with Viktor’s eyes already narrowing like he’d heard the unfinished sentence anyway.

But something else surfaced behind his eyes in that pause, Aliya’s voice, something she’d let slip once, half-joking, and he’d known even then, some part of him had already known

The fist caught him in the ribs before the thought finished forming. He doubled over with a grunt, air leaving him all at once. A second one followed before he’d even straightened, driving him back a step.

”You can’t kill me.” He forced the words out between breaths, the old line, the one that had always worked before. ”You promised Father...”

He looked up, and whatever he saw in Viktor’s eyes made the rest of the sentence die in his throat. There was no performance left in that stare.

No brotherly patience wearing thin. Just something quiet and absolute, and for the first time in his life, Marcel felt something close to real fear settle into his chest.

”You think I haven’t killed you because of a promise to our father?” Viktor’s voice had gone soft, which was worse than shouting ever could have been.

”That’s a nice joke. He asked me to give you ten chances. You’ve spent every one of them.” He took a slow step closer.

”I never did it, Marcel, because I never thought any of your little games were worth the trouble. Don’t worry, I’m not going to make that mistake now either. Death would be too easy for you. Too fast.” A pause, almost gentle.