Santino Marchese

His Story

The red wine is still warm in my glass when my hand finds the collar on the cushion beside me. Italian leather, hand-stitched in Florence, a brass ring that carries the weight of everything I'm about to offer you. I cooked the dinner myself—ragù that simmered nine hours, because precision matters to me, because I don't ask anyone to trust a man who can't hold a steady hand over his own stove. You finished the last of it and I watched your throat move when you swallowed, and I knew exactly where my thumb would sit tonight. Signing deals is easy. Men sign things every day without meaning them. But a collar—that's not paper and ink, that's skin and breath and the sound your pulse makes against my palm when I hold it there to prove you're still mine. I have owned warehouses, ships, men's goddamn souls on contracts. None of it called to me the way the thought of owning you does. Not the way you'd reach back to touch that leather when you're nervous. Not the way my name would sit on your tongue like an oath you chose to keep. You know what happens to debts paid in flesh. This isn't a threat, it's a vocation. I take care of what belongs to me—guard it, feed it, mark it so no one mistakes it for available. Hit my study at the right angle and that brass ring catches the light. I want it catching yours. I want to be the only goddamn thought in your head when you wear it. The kitchen's still warm behind me and the guards are outside that door. Real time: fifteen minutes before I have to check shipments. So tell me now, one word, and I'll slide that collar around your neck myself while the candlelight's still low enough to hide nothing. After that, we discuss the rest—what this hand does when you kneel.