Marco X Hekapoo Novels & Stories

Rico swung back, but Marco blocked it easily and hit him again, harder this time. “You’ll never be good enough to be a Capo,” Marco went on, circling him. “Not like this. Not when a mere bitch has you this lazy.” Rico got distracted for half a second. Marco saw it and smiled wider. “That woman,” he continued, voice dripping with spite. “A whore, really. She's rotting your brain. You chose her over your own blood. Look where it got you.” Rico tried to punch him, but Marco easily dodged him.

“No. I will find him. I want him to look into my face and know the exact shape of the woman he created.” Her eyes burned like a forge. “And then I will destroy him.” São Paulo, Brazil - De Marco watched the European broadcasts with a drink in hand and a wicked smile curling at the edges of his mouth. The clips were vicious. Flames licking sky. Blood in gutters. His allies falling one by one. But he didn’t panic. He leaned back in his chair and lit a cigar. “They think they’re winning,” he said to the man beside him, a gaunt, quiet brute with cartel tattoos down his neck.

Marco’s backyard was ridiculous huge, stretching out like a mini golf course with perfect turf and a clean white flag fluttering near the far end. He handed me a club. “Bet you ten bucks you still can’t beat me.” I snorted. “You say that every time. And every time, I prove you wrong.” Marco smirked. “That’s called delusion, my friend.” He lined up his first shot with unnecessary flair all that showmanship, all that energy and promptly sent the ball slicing way off to the right, bouncing into the hedge. I laughed so hard I nearly dropped my club. “Beautiful form, terrible aim.”

Marco said pleasantly. “Come and eat if you're hungry.” Caterina offered. Marco shook his head lightly. “I'm still traumatized by the fish soup I tasted the other day.” Marco said with an expression that showed that he was truly traumatized. Caterina laughed slightly. “I'm sorry, I really didn't know you couldn't taste spicy food.” She was amused that a mafia chief like Marco could not eat spicy food. He was fierce in front of his men, he was tough when he fought, he looked so stern and scary, but he lost to spicy food.

Marco had been officially stepped down—spineless as ever, letting her take the reins while he hid in her shadow It was laughable. Helena, glowing under the stage lights, stood behind the podium, her sleek white dress screaming power and perfection. Marco lingered beside her, like a battered shadow. His limp was noticeable now, and the burn scar on his cheek was impossible to miss even under the heavy makeup he’d tried to cover it with. I couldn’t stop the flicker of satisfaction in my chest as I leaned back in my seat. “So why are we here, exactly?” I asked Alejandro, keeping my voice low.

In his mind, he recalled their last encounter. He had told her they would see each other again, and now here they were. The thought made him feel a spark of excitement, one he couldn’t quite suppress, despite his cool demeanor. Even though he had ordered Gino to dig up information on her, Gino had come back empty-handed. No matter. He’d discovered her secret himself. "So," Marco began, almost mockingly, "the Holy bride works in a club, huh? As a pole dancer. And quite the experienced lap dancer too."

“Which do you prefer?” He exhaled sharply. “Marco is my name.” “Maybe, but your known name is Giovanni Russo. Hiram Moretti’s dog.” I said darkly. He scoffed. “I have no idea what you're talking about.” Nico struck him again. This time Marco let out a curse. “Fuck you!” He groaned. I inhaled sharply. “Please do not think you can mess with me. I am not in the mood.” He looked up at me. “So you've figured me out. Wonderful.”

—as the fire in my skin and the fire in my gut became one. Marco dropped the whip. He ripped off his suit jacket and his shirt. His body was huge, covered in scars and hard muscles. He looked like a god of war. He unzipped his pants and his cock sprang out—it was bigger than ever, dark red and pulsing with heat. He grabbed my hair and pulled me to the edge of the bed. He didn't want me on my stomach. He flipped me over and pushed my legs back until my knees were hitting my shoulders. He looked at my wet, red, and ruined pussy.

A spray of sharp, crystalline shrapnel peppered the wood. Marco hopped back, a reflexive curse under his breath. He let the knife dangle loosely in his grip, his thumb rubbing the pommel. He was bored now. Bored and arrogant. "Pathetic," Marco sneered, a dry laugh rattling in his chest. "The rags write about you like you’re the second coming of Justice. The truth-seekers. And here you are, folding like a cheap suit after five minutes of steel." Sophia lay in the dirt. She let out a ragged, hacking cough, feeding him the image of a broken woman at the end of her rope.

“That sounds… intense.” “It is,” she said, rocking the pot. “But it’s also why the company is the best. Everyone works hard.” I swallowed. Hard work I could do. I can deal with stress. But working under him… That was something else entirely. Asma glanced at me again, noticing my silence. “I know you’ve heard about him before, even if you don’t admit it.” I froze slightly. “What do you mean?” I asked too quickly. She stiffly lifted an eyebrow. “Alpha Xander Marco. King of Nightmare Pack. Even humans know his name now because of his company.”