It had haunted him ever since. He wanted to lay her to rest, to give her peace after a lifetime of suffering at the hands of both families. But he had been forced to pick his battles, and this one had always been out of reach.
Now Luis stood here, smirking, dangling her name like bait.
Marcel's finger tightened on the trigger. "Talk," he growled, his voice low, dangerous.
Luis licked his teeth, annoyance flickering across his face. If their father hadn't sent him here, would he ever have come? Certainly not to stand with a gun pointed at his chest. He raised his hands slowly, feigning calm.
"Brother, don't be like this," Luis said smoothly. "I came here to discuss business."
Marcel's finger squeezed the trigger slightly, the metal biting against his skin. It took everything in him to restrain the murderous intent boiling inside.
The room held its breath. Marcel finally lowered his gun, the weight of it heavy in his hand. His men followed suit, weapons dipping reluctantly. The air was still thick with tension, but Marcel's voice cut through it. "Two minutes. Then get lost." He limped toward a chair and sat down, his gaze never leaving Luis.
Luis slid into the seat opposite, his smile infuriatingly smug. "Father has a job for you. One last hit, and you will get all of your mother's ashes… and her belongings."
Marcel's glare was so cold it made Luis's blood run thin. "One job?"
Luis nodded quickly. "One job, and you can have everything you want. You won't ever have to see my face again."
Marcel leaned back, cautious. He had learned long ago that nothing involving his family was ever simple. "What's the job?"
Luis smirked. "You have to agree first before I tell you."
Marcel clicked his tongue. "Tsk. Your two minutes are up. Show yourself out." He pushed himself to his feet, ready to disappear into the hallway.
"Alright, alright," Luis said hurriedly. "Let me show you."
One of his men handed him a tablet. Luis slid it across the table. Marcel limped back, sat down, and studied the screen.
"It's simple," Luis said. "Just steal these things, that's all."
Marcel's eyes narrowed. "If it was that simple, your father wouldn't have sent you to look for me."
Luis's jaw tightened. "Our... father," he corrected bitterly.
Marcel glanced at him like he was staring at an idiot. His sneer was sharp. "You can show yourself out." He rose again, his limp pronounced.
Luis's voice snapped. "So are you going to do it or not?"
Marcel's reply was calm and deliberate. "I will call him." By him, he meant their so-called father.
Luis's face twisted with rage. Despite being older, he was treated like air, dismissed as unqualified. His father had warned him not to provoke Marcel, but the humiliation burned.
With a sharp kick, Luis sent the chair skidding across the floor. "Hmph." He stormed out, his men trailing behind.
The silence left behind was heavier than before. Marcel entered his office, his limp more pronounced now that the adrenaline had faded. The pained expression he had suppressed finally surfaced, tightening his jaw and creasing his brow.
He moved toward his desk, rifling through papers and clutter with growing frustration. Files scattered, pens rolled to the floor, drawers slammed open and shut. He was searching for his pain pills, the ones he hadn't touched in months.
Archie rushed in, alarmed. "Boss!"
Marcel ignored him, his hands still tearing through the chaos. Papers fluttered to the ground, a picture frame clattered against the desk edge. Archie stepped forward, catching his wrist. "I will look for them... Let me look for them."
Marcel froze, then leaned back heavily into his leather chair. His eyes closed, brows furrowed, his breathing uneven. Archie searched quickly, knowing Marcel's habits, and found the bottle tucked in the top drawer. He poured out two pills and handed them over.
Marcel whispered, "Thank you."
Archie fetched a cup of water from the cooler, but when he turned back, Marcel had already swallowed the pills dry. Archie grimaced. "Isn't it bitter?"
Marcel stretched out his hand, and Archie placed the cup in it. He drank slowly, his eyes still closed. "It's better," he murmured.
Archie's gaze lingered on his leg. He sighed. "I will get you something to eat. Is there anything in particular that you would like?"
Marcel pulled out his wallet, handing Archie his card. "Get everyone something and bring me whatever."
Archie nodded, used to this routine. "Call me if the pain gets worse. I will drag Doc out of bed if I have to."
He hummed in agreement, his voice low. Archie hesitated, reluctant to leave, but finally stepped out of the office.
Marcel leaned his head back against the leather chair, his eyes closing as he tried to disassociate from the pain gnawing at his leg. He forced his mind elsewhere, into the shadows of his past. To him, he was no longer part of the Verrochi family. Truthfully, he had never been part of them at all.
Ever since he was torn from his mother's arms as a toddler and delivered into the Verrochi household, he had been treated like a stain, an unwanted reminder of his father's indiscretions.
His father looked at him with contempt, as though Marcel's very existence ruined the perfect image of a devoted husband and father he paraded before the world. Marcel wasn't even allowed to call him "father." That word was forbidden, stripped from him like he had no right to claim it.
They kept him in a cottage on the property, far from the manor, raised by nannies who rotated shifts. It wasn't for his benefit. It was to spare Luis's mother from the sight of her husband's illegitimate son. If not for the insistence of the old man, Marcel would have been cast out long ago.
But his grandfather's motives were never rooted in affection. Rosario Verrochi, his father, was pampered, spoiled, and utterly incapable of running the family empire. Luis was no better, rotten with privilege, wasting money like water. The old man needed someone to mold, a weapon to wield, someone with blood ties who could be sharpened into steel. That weapon was Marcel.
Yet he had never wanted to be their tool. He fought, clawed, and bled to sever those ties. For years, he believed he was free. But the truth was bitter: he would never be free. They would always find him, wherever he went, dragging him back into their schemes.
Now, the only leverage they had left was his mother's ashes.