Chapter One Hundred Thirty-Four: The Mafia Who Learned to Waltz
The Eiffel Tower sparkled.
Not the steady, dignified glow of daylight, but the wild, reckless shimmer of midnight—thousands of lights flickering across the iron lattice like stars fallen to earth. The crowd had thinned, the late hour chasing away the tourists and leaving behind only lovers, dreamers, and one very confused mafia kingpin who was currently being dragged across the Trocadéro esplanade by his very determined wife.
"Angel." His voice was strained. "Where are we going?"
"Dancing."
"We're not dancing."
"We're absolutely dancing." I stopped in the middle of the plaza, the tower looming above us, the lights reflecting in his dark, wary eyes. "There's music. See?"
A street musician had set up near the fountain—an old man with a violin, his case open at his feet, the notes of something soft and familiar drifting through the cold night air.
"Angel—"
"Tete." I tugged at his hand, pulling him closer. "Dance with me."
"I don't dance."
"Everyone dances."
"I don't."
I stared at him.
He stared back.
His jaw was tight. His shoulders were rigid. He looked like a man facing down a firing squad, not a woman who wanted to sway in his arms under the sparkling lights of the most romantic tower in the world.
"You're a very good liar," I said.
"I'm not lying."
"You're absolutely lying." I stepped closer, pressing my palm to his chest. "I've seen you dance."
"You've seen me walk."
"I've seen you move. You're graceful. Like a panther. A very sexy, very dangerous panther."
"Panthers don't dance."
"This one does."
He caught my wrists, stilling my hands on his chest. "Angel."
"Tete."
"I can't—" He stopped, his jaw working.
"Can't what?"
"I can't let them see me like this."
"Them?" I looked around. The plaza was empty—just us, the violinist, and a few distant figures huddled on benches, wrapped in coats and scarves. "There's no one here."
"My men."
I blinked. "Your men?"
"Security." His voice was low, tense. "They're watching. They're always watching."
"Where?"
He didn't answer. Just tilted his head slightly toward a dark sedan parked near the fountain, its windows tinted, its engine humming softly.
I squinted. I couldn't see anyone. But I knew they were there. I always knew.
"Tete."
"Angel."
"Are you embarrassed to dance with me?"
"No."
"Then what's the problem?"
He was quiet for a long moment. The violinist played on, the notes drifting through the cold air like falling leaves.
"They'll think I've gone soft," he said finally.
"Soft?"
"Weak." His jaw tightened. "Vulnerable. They've never seen me like this. They've never seen me—" He stopped, gesturing vaguely at the space between us. "—like this."
"Like what?"
"Happy."
The word hung in the air, fragile and unfamiliar. I watched his face—the way his eyes flickered, the way his throat moved, the way his hands trembled just slightly where they held my wrists.
"You're scared," I said.
"I'm not scared."
"You're terrified."
"I'm cautious."
"You're a coward."
His eyes flashed. "I'm not a coward."
"Then dance with me."
He stared at me.
I stared back.
The violinist played on.
"Tete."
"Angel."
"I'm going to count to three."
"Don't."
"One."
"Angel—"
"Two."
"I don't—"
"Three."
I pulled him into my arms.
His body was stiff, unyielding, a statue in human form. But I didn't let go. I pressed my cheek to his chest, wrapped my arms around his waist, and swayed.
"Move," I whispered.
"I don't know how."
"Just move." I swayed again, and this time, he moved with me—just a little, just a step, a shift of weight from one foot to the other. "See? You're dancing."
"I'm swaying."
"Dancing is just swaying with style."
"You're impossible."
"You love it."
He didn't answer. But his arms came around me, his hands settling on my back, his body relaxing against mine.
The violinist played on.
The tower sparkled.
And Kim Taehyun—the devil of Seoul, the kingpin who made men tremble, the monster who had blood on his hands and secrets in his heart—danced with his wife under the Eiffel Tower.
---
Later—much later, when the violinist had packed up and gone home, when the crowd had thinned to nothing, when the only light came from the tower and the distant glow of the city—we stood on the bridge.
The Seine was dark and still, the water reflecting the stars and the lights and the two figures leaning against the railing, their shoulders touching, their hands intertwined.
"Tete?"
"Hmm?"
"Can I ask you something?"
"You can ask me anything."
I was quiet for a moment, watching the water drift past.
"What do your men think of me?"
He stiffened. "Angel—"
"I'm not trying to make you uncomfortable. I'm just curious." I turned to face him, my back against the railing, my hands still in his. "They watch me all the time. When I'm in the garden. When I'm reading in the library. When I'm walking through the halls."
"They're protecting you."
"I know. But they look at me like—" I paused, searching for the right word. "—like I'm an alien. Like I don't belong."
"You belong."
"Then why do they look at me like that?"
He was quiet for a long moment.
"Because they've never seen me like this," he said finally.
"Like what?"
"Soft."
I raised an eyebrow. "You're not soft."
"I am with you."
My heart stuttered.
"Tete—"
"They've watched me kill men." His voice was low, rough. "They've watched me order executions, sign contracts that ruined lives, destroy families without blinking. They've seen the worst of me, Angel. The coldest. The cruelest."
I pressed my palm to his chest, feeling his heartbeat.
"And then you came." His hand covered mine. "And suddenly, I was braiding hair. Feeding you breakfast. Dancing under the Eiffel Tower."
"You're not soft," I said again.
"I'm softer."
"You're kind."
"I'm not kind."
"You're kind to me."
He closed his eyes.
"Tete." I reached up, cupping his face in my hands. "Look at me."
He opened his eyes.
"I don't care what your men think," I said. "I don't care if they think you've gone soft or weak or vulnerable. I don't care if they think I'm an alien who doesn't belong."
"Angel—"
"You're my husband." I pressed my forehead to his. "And I'm your wife. And I don't care about the rest."
"You should care."
"Why?"
"Because—" He stopped, his jaw working.
"Because what?"
He pulled away.
I watched him walk to the edge of the bridge, his hands gripping the railing, his shoulders hunched. The lights of the tower reflected in his dark hair, painted shadows across his back.
"Tete."
"Don't."
"Tete."
"I said don't."
I walked to him anyway.
I stopped behind him, close enough to feel the heat of his body, close enough to see the tension in his shoulders, the white-knuckled grip of his hands on the railing.
"What are you afraid of?" I asked.
"I'm not afraid."
"You're terrified."
"I'm—" He stopped.
"You're what?"
He turned to face me.
His eyes were dark. Unreadable. But beneath the darkness, beneath the steel, I saw something else. Something soft. Something scared.
"I'm afraid you'll remember," he said.
"Remember what?"
"Who I am." His voice cracked. "What I've done. The blood on my hands. The bodies in my past."
"Tete—"
"You don't know me, Angel. Not really. You know the man who braids your hair and feeds you breakfast and dances under the Eiffel Tower. You don't know the monster."
"Then show me."
He shook his head.
"Show me," I said again. "Show me the monster. Show me the blood. Show me the bodies. Show me everything you're afraid I'll remember."
"I can't."
"Why not?"
"Because—" He stopped, his jaw working.
"Because what?"
"Because if I show you," he said, "you'll run."
I stepped closer.
My hands found his, pulling them away from the railing, pressing them flat against my chest.
"I'm not going to run," I said.
"You don't know that."
"I know." I pressed his palm harder against my heart. "I know because I've been running my whole life. From memories. From fear. From love. And I'm tired, Tete. I'm so tired of running."
"Angel—"
"I'm staying." I rose on my toes, my lips brushing his. "I'm staying, and I'm choosing you, and I don't care about the blood or the bodies or the monster you think you are."
"You should care."
"I don't."
"You're impossible."
"You love it."
He kissed me.
Soft at first, then deeper, his hands sliding from my chest to my back, pulling me close. The tower sparkled. The river flowed. And I held on.
When he finally pulled back, we were both breathing hard.
"I'm still not dancing," he said.
I laughed. "You already danced."
"That wasn't dancing."
"That was definitely dancing."
"It was swaying."
"Dancing."
"Swaying."
"Dancing."
He sighed.
It was a long sigh, heavy and resigned.
"Fine," he said. "It was dancing."
I grinned.
And for the first time since we'd arrived in Paris, I felt something that might have been peace.
---
The walk back to the hotel was quiet.
His hand was warm in mine, his thumb tracing small circles on my palm. The streets were empty, the shops closed, the only sound the soft echo of our footsteps on the cobblestones.
"Tete?"
"Hmm?"
"Are you still afraid?"
He was quiet for a moment.
"Yes," he said.
"Of what?"
"Of losing you."
"You won't lose me."
"You don't know that."
"I know." I stopped walking, turning to face him. "I know because I've already lost myself. My memories. My past. My name. And you found me. You brought me back."
"Angel—"
"I don't remember our wedding." My voice cracked. "I don't remember our honeymoon. I don't remember the first time you said you loved me or the first time I said it back. But I remember this."
"Remember what?"
"Paris." I pressed my palm to his cheek. "The Eiffel Tower. The violinist. The way you danced with me even though you were terrified."
"I wasn't terrified."
"You were terrified."
"I was cautious."
"You were adorable."
He sighed. "I'm not adorable."
"You're absolutely adorable. You're a big, scary, adorable mafia boss who dances with his wife under the Eiffel Tower."
"I didn't dance."
"You swayed."
"I swayed."
"Dancing."
"Swaying."
"Dancing."
He kissed me.
Soft. Slow. A promise.
"I love you," he said.
"I know."
"I love you, and I'm sorry, and I'm trying."
"I know." I pulled back, looking up at him. "Just keep trying."
"I will."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
He took my hand.