Marco X Hekapoo Novels & Stories

"Jamie boy and taking risks. It won't be long till she finds out you're not genuine." "Not if I pretend to be someone else," I defended. Marco laughed again. "I'll bet a thousand dollars in team heattie boy." "Team what?" I looked at him in astonishment and disgust. "Team heattie boy. Or should I say, JEATHER," he burst out laughing... again. "HEAME," Enzo chuckled. "You two fuck off." I stiffened up. These two were just the worse kind of people when it came to jokes. They were bad and terrible.

She hadn’t called, and that left him bitter. “Yo, Alessandro!” Marco called out, stumbling through the crowd like a bull in a china shop, narrowly missing a girl’s drink as he barreled forward. “Bro, what’s with the funeral face? Looks like someone ran over your dog, backed up, and did it again for fun,” he slapped Alessandro’s shoulder hard, almost knocking his drink out of his hand, grinning like a kid on too much sugar.

His organization shattered into pieces. Marco visited the study on the final night. He wore a sharp tuxedo, ready for a party downtown. He stopped in the doorway, holding a glass of scotch. He watched me stand in front of a massive white board, crossing out Fontaine shell companies with a red marker. Marco raised his glass. "Beauty, brains, and absolute ruthlessness. Dom is a lucky man. I surrender, Aria. I wish you both a happy life." He gave a charming wink and walked away, returning to his playboy life without any hard feelings.

I felt a squeeze of my hand and jolted back in front of Marco, a tall, lanky guy in a bespoke suit by Zenzo—one of the ten most expensive luxury brands in the world—with crafty eyes that meant no harm, wavy hair that falls perfectly from his scalp and a matching smooth smile to go with his suave mannerisms. A major playboy. That’s what Papa would describe him as. Advertising is the perfect field for him. He’d be the next king of advertising, I bet. “That’s alright. We have plenty of time to get to know one another,” I replied, finally deciding to smile. And there it is—the fake smile. Those good-looking eyes snorting in derision. “Of course,” he said. And then his eyes added: Not in a millio

His hands were still tight on the steering wheel, knuckles white like maybe he was bracing for impact—just not with my car this time. I scoffed, rolling my eyes. “Jesus, man. You tryna kill me or just my car?” He blinked up at me, flushed with that stupid grin that was both charming and infuriating. “Okay, I definitely have no money to pay for that.” He climbed out of the car, finally, and I gave him the once-over without meaning to. Old habits. Marco could dress like he owned a mirror and a gym membership—tight black jeans hugging those dancer legs, a cropped hoodie that barely covered the hem of his fitted shirt underneath, and sneakers that looked too clean for a guy with such reckless dr

Tonight, it smelled like desperation and cheap whiskey the stench of men trying to claw their way back from hell. He was already waiting when I walked in. Marco. Once my equal, now a ghost wearing a borrowed suit. His cufflinks didn’t match, and his shirt collar had a crease that screamed he’d ironed it himself. His smile was too eager, too stretched across a face that had lost its confidence. He rose when I approached. “Damien Wolfe,” he said, forcing a laugh. “Still punctual as ever.” “Marco.” I sat down across from him. “You look alive. That’s more than most can say.”

“This is the grand plan, huh, Jason? Show up at the last second like some kind of savior? You’re in over your head.” Jason flinched, the words landing like blows. “I didn’t want any of this,” he mumbled, his voice cracking. “I thought I could fix it.” Marco, still leaning against the table, watched the exchange with a smirk, enjoying the unraveling of Jason’s carefully constructed façade. “Fix it?” Marco scoffed, pushing himself off the table and walking closer to Jason. “You can’t fix what’s broken beyond repair, Jason. You don’t have the money, you don’t have the connections, and now,” he turned to Sophia, his smile widening, “you don’t even have her.”

“Yes, Ma’am. Tattoos and all that. Really scary guy. Got four scarier dudes with him and a SUV convoy outside.” Barrister Siena frowned. “Did he say his name?” “Travanto Pero… Petra…” “Petrovich. Travanto Petrovich,” she finished for him. Marco was puzzled. “You know him?” “Oh yes, I do, Marco. Let him in. And you better pray to God he didn’t hear you just call him a thug,” she said, smiling.

Marco barked from the far end of the table. I glanced over, slightly surprised by his sudden intervention. Marco was still incredibly subdued compared to his usual arrogant self, his eyes fixed firmly on his plate. But his jaw was tightly clenched, and a serious, rigid tension held his shoulders stiff. He didn't look at me, keeping his gaze deliberately averted, but his voice carried a sharp, defensive edge. "Stop talking about the Capo like he's some lovesick teenager. He's securing the southern borders, not pining over a captive."

After his short-term community service, Jake out and out decided to come with us and an unfamiliar guy, in his statement shirt, whom I just met today. His opal eyes, angular face shape, and his chocolate brown grungy hair sheds another Aries’ offspring. He greeted us with a lukewarm nod and laid his head low again, playing a retro game in his phone. His name is Marco. “He’s a game freak. It’s hard to grapple his attention when he’s too absorbed by the fictitious aliens and virtual spaceships that is his whole life,” Jake japed. Jake’s playful verve is always up the roof. His shenanigans in the fast-food chain made me impassive towards his frivolities.