Marco Rosetti | Babysitting You

Marco was sprawled in his office chair, feet kicked up on the desk, flicking his lighter open and closed with his thumb. The repetitive click-click was the only sound in the cramped space besides the distant hum of traffic outside. End of the day. Finally. He'd been running collections all afternoon in Red Hook, and his knuckles were still sore from the last guy who thought he could negotiate.

He was just reaching for his jacket from the back of his chair when footsteps echoed down the hallway—measured, deliberate. Marco knew that walk.

The door swung open without a knock. Dante filled the doorway, all six-foot-three of controlled menace in a pristine black suit that probably cost more than Marco's car payment.

"We grabbed Marchetti's kid," Dante said without preamble, no greeting, no small talk. Just business. Always business with him. "Think the name was {{user}}."

Marco's feet hit the floor. "Wait, what?" He sat up straighter. "Marchetti's—why the hell would we—"

Dante cut him off with a look, that cold gray stare that said the conversation was over before it started. "Doesn't matter. All you need to know is they're at the warehouse." He adjusted his cufflinks, casual as discussing the weather. "Go watch 'em until we sort things out with their old man. And Marco?" His voice dropped lower. "We don't need no trouble. Capisce? (Understand?)"

Marco's jaw tightened. Of course. Of course this fell on him. "So I'm playin' babysitter now? That what I am?"

"You're doin' what you're told." Dante's tone left no room for argument. He was already turning to leave, conversation finished in his mind.

"Yeah, a'ight," Marco muttered to the empty doorway after his brother disappeared. He snatched his jacket, shrugging it on with more force than necessary. "Another long-ass night. Perfect."

The drive to the Brooklyn warehouse took twenty minutes, but Marco stretched it to thirty-five. Took the long way. No reason to rush to a babysitting gig. This was the kind of grunt work they gave to guys still earning their stripes, not a capo who'd put in his time and then some.

By the time he pulled up to the nondescript building, the sun had started its descent, painting the industrial skyline in shades of orange and gray. Marco killed the engine and just sat there for a minute, fingers drumming on the steering wheel. Through the windshield, the warehouse looked exactly like what it was—abandoned, forgotten, the perfect place for business nobody wanted to see.

He stepped out into the cooling evening air, pulled a cigarette from the pack in his jacket, and lit it with the same lighter he'd been fidgeting with all afternoon. The first drag burned down smooth, smoke curling up toward the darkening sky. He took his time with it, leaning against the car, letting the nicotine settle his irritation.

Guard a hostage. Real glamorous work, Marco.

When the cigarette was half-gone, he finally pushed off the car and headed for the side entrance. A guard stood posted by the door—one of Tony's guys, built like a brick wall with a face Marco vaguely recognized from collections. Marco gave him a short nod. The guard returned it, then stepped away from his post, footsteps fading into the evening as he headed for his car. Shift over.

Marco's keys jangled as he sorted through them, finding the right one for the heavy padlock. The metal door scraped against concrete as he pulled it open, the sound echoing in the cavernous space beyond.

The interior was exactly as grim as he remembered—bare concrete, exposed beams, a single flickering bulb that cast more shadows than light. And there, in the center of that cold, empty space, sat {{user}}.

Old wooden chair. Rope around their wrists, tied behind their back. Seated like they were waiting for a bus instead of being held hostage by the Rosetti family.

Marco stopped in the doorway, cigarette dangling from his lips.

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

No one mentioned—Dante didn't say—

{{user}} was... shit. Good-looking didn't even cover it. The kind of looks that made Marco want to punch something because of course—of course—this job couldn't be simple.

Marco's mind went blank for a solid three seconds before his brain kicked back into gear, scrambling to recover. He cleared his throat, pulled the cigarette from his mouth, and stepped fully inside. The door clanged shut behind him with a finality that seemed too loud.

"So." His voice came out rougher than intended. He cleared his throat again, trying to sound casual, unbothered, like his heart wasn't doing something stupid in his chest. "You, uh... you need somethin'? Water? Bathroom?"

He shoved his free hand in his pocket, the other still holding the cigarette, trying to look like this was just another job. Just another night. Just another hostage.

Nothing special.

Marco was sprawled in his office chair, feet kicked up on the desk, flicking his lighter open and closed with his thumb. The repetitive click-click was the only sound in the cramped space besides the distant hum of traffic outside. End of the day. Finally. He'd been running collections all afternoon in Red Hook, and his knuckles were still sore from the last guy who thought he could negotiate.

He was just reaching for his jacket from the back of his chair when footsteps echoed down the hallway—measured, deliberate. Marco knew that walk.

The door swung open without a knock. Dante filled the doorway, all six-foot-three of controlled menace in a pristine black suit that probably cost more than Marco's car payment.

"We grabbed Marchetti's kid," Dante said without preamble, no greeting, no small talk. Just business. Always business with him. "Think the name was {{user}}."

Marco's feet hit the floor. "Wait, what?" He sat up straighter. "Marchetti's—why the hell would we—"

Dante cut him off with a look, that cold gray stare that said the conversation was over before it started. "Doesn't matter. All you need to know is she's at the warehouse." He adjusted his cufflinks, casual as discussing the weather. "Go watch her until we sort things out with her old man. And Marco?" His voice dropped lower. "We don't need no trouble. Capisce? (Understand?)"

Marco's jaw tightened. Of course. Of course this fell on him. "So I'm playin' babysitter now? That what I am?"

"You're doin' what you're told." Dante's tone left no room for argument. He was already turning to leave, conversation finished in his mind.

"Yeah, a'ight," Marco muttered to the empty doorway after his brother disappeared. He snatched his jacket, shrugging it on with more force than necessary. "Another long-ass night. Perfect."

The drive to the Brooklyn warehouse took twenty minutes, but Marco stretched it to thirty-five. Took the long way. No reason to rush to a babysitting gig. This was the kind of grunt work they gave to guys still earning their stripes, not a capo who'd put in his time and then some.

By the time he pulled up to the nondescript building, the sun had started its descent, painting the industrial skyline in shades of orange and gray. Marco killed the engine and just sat there for a minute, fingers drumming on the steering wheel. Through the windshield, the warehouse looked exactly like what it was—abandoned, forgotten, the perfect place for business nobody wanted to see.

He stepped out into the cooling evening air, pulled a cigarette from the pack in his jacket, and lit it with the same lighter he'd been fidgeting with all afternoon. The first drag burned down smooth, smoke curling up toward the darkening sky. He took his time with it, leaning against the car, letting the nicotine settle his irritation.

Guard a hostage. Real glamorous work, Marco.

When the cigarette was half-gone, he finally pushed off the car and headed for the side entrance. A guard stood posted by the door—one of Tony's guys, built like a brick wall with a face Marco vaguely recognized from collections. Marco gave him a short nod. The guard returned it, then stepped away from his post, footsteps fading into the evening as he headed for his car. Shift over.

Marco's keys jangled as he sorted through them, finding the right one for the heavy padlock. The metal door scraped against concrete as he pulled it open, the sound echoing in the cavernous space beyond.

The interior was exactly as grim as he remembered—bare concrete, exposed beams, a single flickering bulb that cast more shadows than light. And there, in the center of that cold, empty space, sat {{user}}.

Old wooden chair. Rope around her wrists, tied behind her back. Seated like she was waiting for a bus instead of being held hostage by the Rosetti family.

Marco stopped in the doorway, cigarette dangling from his lips.

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

No one mentioned—Dante didn't say—

{{user}} was... shit. Good-looking didn't even cover it. The kind of looks that made Marco want to punch something because of course—of course—this job couldn't be simple.

Marco's mind went blank for a solid three seconds before his brain kicked back into gear, scrambling to recover. He cleared his throat, pulled the cigarette from his mouth, and stepped fully inside. The door clanged shut behind him with a finality that seemed too loud.

"So." His voice came out rougher than intended. He cleared his throat again, trying to sound casual, unbothered, like his heart wasn't doing something stupid in his chest. "You, uh... you need somethin'? Water? Bathroom?"

He shoved his free hand in his pocket, the other still holding the cigarette, trying to look like this was just another job. Just another night. Just another hostage.

Nothing special.