Blind Trust with the Don

Chapter 5: Hairline Fracture.

Olivia's POV.

“What did you do to your hair?" Marcell questioned me.

I watched as he picked the piece of hair he dropped seconds before, rubbing their soft strands between his fingers. There wasn't much Marcell couldn't do that didn't make me feel hot and bothered. The man had a way of completely playing me like a well-loved instrument.

“You don't like it?" I asked him, not able to help the concern that leaked into my voice.

I was impulsive to the core; it was a part of my adorable personality trait. Whenever I felt even a fracture of instability, I searched for whatever element around me I could control. It always happened to be my physicality, starting a new job limited my options, thinking perhaps the men at the firm would frown upon the new junior associate arriving on her first day with a new piercing.

I decided after my call with Katie to chop all of my hair off, but it wasn't enough. I needed more. So, when my stylist suggested highlights, it was exactly the change I needed. But it wasn't because of the job that I needed the change. I needed the change because I was starting to feel invisible. Unseen. I knew Marcell had pressures on him, that no matter how much I tried to understand, I never would.

As much as I knew on a cellular level he cared for me, I couldn't help but fear he was forgetting me like everyone else in my life had. That he would do what everyone else had done. He would move on. So, perhaps, cutting my hair and going blond was a manic way of coping with my own insecurities. But we all have our own demons haunting us.

“I didn't say that, did I?" Marcell looked up from my hair, his blue eyes recaptured the ever-brewing lust they held whenever we found ourselves in these positions, at least I thought that look in his eyes was lust.

“Well, you didn't say you liked it. I didn't even think you noticed it," I remarked.

“I was a little preoccupied." The corner of his mouth quirked up.

This was hands down my favorite look on his handsome face when the tension melted off of him and he looked at ease, where you could almost see he wasn't haunted by his past, where the Marcell that was deep inside of him had a chance to break through the cracks. I craved for the moments where I could pry those cracks. Those tiny hairline fractures in his carefully constructed mask wide open and bringing the true Marcell to the light.

“So. Do you like it?" I couldn't help my insecurities; I don't know exactly what I would do if he didn't like it.

“I love it. I would love your head if it was hairless, Olivia. When did you get it done?" Marcell asked me.

“Charmer. I got it done today. Pauly took me. It was sort of impulsive."

“Sounds like you." Marcell's one-sided grin broke out into the semblance of a full smile.

I captured the moment in my memory; us standing in my kitchen, his hands stroking my hair, both of us completely content in not wanting to break the silence.

“Marcell?" My voice came out quietly. His eyes were concentrating on stroking my hair in a dizzying comforting manner. He hummed his response. “What is this to you?"

“What do you mean?" Marcell looked at me, his brows knit in confusion.

“Us? Are we even an us? Or am I just someone you blow steam off with? A woman who you connected with once upon a time, who you have fun with. Am I just a booty call for you to get yourself satisfied?"

“You're a drug. A drug that's invaded every single cell in my system. A drug I never want to quit. A drug I never want to get clean from. A drug I'll never get enough of." Marcell answered, his hand threaded back through my hair, tipping my face up to look at him.

“Am I an addiction, Marcell?"

“You're the breath inside of me, the reason I can continue on with doing what I need to do. You're the anchor that keeps me from drifting and sinking. You're what keeps me from going so dark that I'll never keep from coming back. You're so much more than that though."

“Are you okay, Marcell? I'm worried for you." I said while searching his eyes.

They were so full of so many emotions, just when I thought I had a grasp on what he might be feeling, they shifted onto something else.

“It's not anything for you to worry about, Olivia." He said, dismissing me, his thumb stroking my cheek.

He leaned in to kiss me again, but I knew as soon as I gave into him, I wouldn't be able to stop. We had made so much progress just now, but there was so much more to be discussed. I leaned back. His hold on my face made it difficult, but he got the intention as his eyes narrowed. He wasn't mad; he was exhausted.

It wasn't beyond me that Marcell was sleeping at my place because he couldn't sleep anywhere else. Not because he didn't have anywhere else to sleep, and though he would never admit to it, he had gotten used to sleeping next to me, just as much as I had.

“You can trust me, Marcell. If we are going to make whatever this is work, you have to trust me—"

“I do. When I say it's not yours to worry about, it's not because I don't trust you. It's because I don't want you dragged into the center of this conflict."

“What conflict? I thought the conflicted died with Aldo?"

“It's the world of organized crime, Olivia. There's always conflict. We cut the head off of one snake for another to take its place."

Marcell released me, stepping back to the counter, and leaning against it with both of his hands. His head dipped down between his shoulder, bunched with tension. The thick white dress shirt he wore was wrinkled from the wear of the day and untucked from his navy-blue dress pants. His ankle boots were scuffed in the back.

Marcell might be the Don of his family, but he was still, in so many ways, very much the same man I met two months ago. The man who could give two shits about the way he dressed, but he tried to make an impression.

Marcell had even traded in his sports car for a driver and a black town car. Marcell was playing the part, and it slowly eroded away the man he was, leaving nothing but the man they all expected him to be.

“They're at each other, like a bunch of nagging women. I spend most of my days mediating territory negotiations when I should be recruiting new guards, to replace the old ones from Aldo. I'm barely holding onto the facade that I'm capable, all while squashing rumors from these grumbling idiots, who question my decisions left and right.

“That complete asshat Shamus should be thanking me, but instead he's questioning why I placed Ren as my underboss, and if I had a choice, I'd gut every single one of them without blinking, without hesitation. It'd be a hell of a lot easier than hearing them grumble. But I can't. Not without starting a war, and I can't afford a war. Because I don't have the men to even survive, and I can't let them know that. I can't let them know I'm weak—"

“—What can I do?" I interrupted him.

Marcell didn't need me to help him figure any of that out. In all sincerity, none of it made any sense to me. I knew names and a few facts, and it was better on so many different levels for the both of us if I kept out of the details. But Marcell trusted me with what was bothering him, that I could be what he needed. I could be his safe place.

“I don't want to worry tonight, Olivia. I don't want to worry about if I'm not doing enough or doing too much. I don't want to think about my responsibilities to anyone other than you. I want to forget. I want to take you into that room and get lost in the sheets with you, and completely forget the world outside those walls even knows our names."

“Okay," I said, taking his hand and pulling him behind me.

Tonight, we forget. Tonight, I can help him forget. Tonight, he can help me forget. Help me forget my confusion, my struggle, the damned chaos in my brain.