Ezra's POV
You understand what just happened?
Marco's voice cuts through the silence of his penthouse apartment. He stands by the floor-to-ceiling windows, whiskey in hand, looking completely calm despite having committed murder less than an hour ago.
I'm still shaking. Can't stop shaking.
You saved my life, I manage to say.
I gave you a role to play. Marco turns to face me, his expression unreadable. If you play it well, you might keep that life. If you don't... He doesn't finish. Doesn't need to.
The apartment is massive, all marble and glass and expensive furniture I'm afraid to touch. Everything about this place screams money and power. Everything except me, still in my thrift store jeans and secondhand jacket, blood roaring in my ears.
I don't understand. My voice cracks. Why did you really save me? You could have just killed me. It would have been easier.
Easier, yes. But I'm tired of easy deaths. Marco sets down his glass with careful precision. I'm tired of killing people who stumble into the wrong place at the wrong time. Tired of being my father's executioner.
So you made me your boyfriend instead?
I made you a problem my father can't solve by putting a bullet in your head. His eyes find mine—dark, calculating, dangerous. At least not immediately.
The reality crashes over me again. I witnessed a murder. Marco Vitale claimed me as his secret lover. And now I'm trapped in the penthouse of Chicago's most dangerous crime family.
What happens now? I whisper.
Marco moves closer, and I force myself not to back away. He studies my face like he's memorizing it.
Now you listen very carefully to the rules. Your survival depends on understanding them perfectly.
I nod because what choice do I have?
First: you move in here. Tonight. Don't go back to your apartment.
But my things
Will be collected and brought here. Dante is already handling it. Marco's tone leaves no room for argument. Second: you quit both your part-time jobs immediately. I'll provide whatever money you need.
I can't just disappear from my life
You already have. His hand reaches out, cups my chin, forces me to meet his eyes. The moment you walked into that warehouse, your old life ended. The sooner you accept that, the better your chances of surviving this one.
Tears burn my eyes, but I blink them back. Crying won't help. Nothing will help except doing exactly what Marco says.
Third, he continues, releasing my face, you can tell one person—one friend—that you're seeing someone. Keep it vague. Say it's new and intense and you need some space. But that's all. No details, no questions, no location.
I think of Jordan immediately. My best friend since freshman year. The only person who'd actually notice I disappeared.
Okay, I breathe. One person.
Fourth: you learn everything about me. My favorite foods, my habits, my history. We need to be convincing when my father eventually summons us. Marco's jaw tightens. And he will summon us. Probably within the week.
The thought of facing Marco's father—the man who runs Chicago's most powerful crime family—makes my knees weak.
What if I mess up? What if he figures out we're lying?
Then we both die. Marco says it so casually, like discussing the weather. My father is Don Giovanni Vitale. He's survived forty years in this business by being smarter and more ruthless than everyone else. He'll test you. He'll try to break you. And if he thinks for one second that you're lying...
He trails off, but the threat is clear enough.
Why would he kill his own son? I ask.
Marco's laugh is bitter. Because I just confessed to being gay in front of witnesses. In my family, that's worse than being a traitor. My father once had his own cousin beaten to death for 'deviant behavior.' His eyes hold mine. The only reason I'm not dead already is because I'm his heir. But even that has limits.
The weight of it settles on my chest. Marco didn't just save me. He risked everything—his position, his life, his entire future, by claiming me.
So what's the fifth rule? I ask quietly.
There is no fifth rule. Just those four. Follow them, and you might survive long enough for me to figure out what comes next. Marco moves to the hallway. Come on. I'll show you your room.
My room? I follow him down a corridor lined with expensive art. I thought we were supposed to be...
Dating, yes. That doesn't mean I'm going to force myself on you. He opens a door to reveal a bedroom bigger than my entire apartment. This is yours. Private bathroom, walk-in closet, whatever you need. I'm across the hall if you need anything.
I step inside, overwhelmed by the luxury. The bed alone could fit four people.
Marco, I say, turning to face him. I don't understand you. You kill people without hesitation, but you're giving me my own room? You claim me as your lover but won't touch me? Nothing about this makes sense.
He leans against the doorframe, and for a moment he looks younger. Tired. Almost vulnerable.
I'm a walking contradiction, Ezra. A killer who doesn't want to kill. A son who hates his father. A man who's spent his entire life pretending to be something he's not. His voice drops. And now I'm pretending to be in love with a stranger I saved on impulse. So no, nothing about this makes sense. We'll just have to figure it out as we go.
And if we can't figure it out?
Then at least you'll die in a nice apartment instead of a dirty warehouse. His attempt at dark humor falls flat. Get some sleep, Ezra. Tomorrow we start teaching you how to be my boyfriend convincingly enough that my father believes it.
He turns to leave, and panic surges through me.
Wait! I call out. What if I can't do this? What if I'm terrible at acting and your father sees through me immediately?
Marco pauses in the doorway, not looking back.
Then I'll do what I always do when things go wrong. His voice is quiet, almost sad. I'll adapt. I'll lie. I'll kill whoever needs to die to keep us both alive. That's what I'm good at.
That's not comforting.
It wasn't meant to be comforting. It was meant to be honest. He finally looks at me over his shoulder. I'm a lot of things, Ezra, but I try not to be a liar. At least not to you. So here's one more truth: I don't know if we'll survive this. But I'm going to try like hell to make sure we do.
Then he's gone, door clicking shut behind him.
I sink onto the massive bed, my whole body shaking again now that I'm alone. This is insane. All of it. I witnessed a murder, got claimed by a mafia heir, and now I'm living in his penthouse pretending to be his secret boyfriend.
My phone buzzes. Jordan.
Study session tomorrow? You've been MIA lately.
I stare at the message for a long time. Then I type carefully: Can't tomorrow. Met someone. It's new and kind of intense. Need some space to figure things out.
Jordan's response is immediate: OMG DETAILS. Is he hot? Where'd you meet? Why are you being mysterious?
Later. Promise. Just need time.
Fine but you're telling me EVERYTHING when you're ready. Love you.
Love you too.
I set the phone down and stare at the ceiling. Love. Such a simple word for such a complicated feeling.
I don't love Marco. I barely know Marco. But he's the only thing standing between me and a bullet, and somehow that creates its own twisted kind of bond.
My door opens. Marco stands there with clothes draped over his arm.
These should fit. Tomorrow we'll get you a proper wardrobe, but for tonight... He sets them on a chair. Sleep in whatever's comfortable.
Thank you.
He nods, turns to leave again.
Marco? I call out. That man you killed. Tony. Did he really betray your family, or was that just an excuse?
Marco's shoulders tense. For a long moment, he doesn't answer.
He betrayed us, Marco finally says. Gave information to the Zanetti family that got three of our people killed. So yes, he deserved what he got.
And me? Do I deserve what I'm getting?
Marco turns to look at me, and something flickers in his eyes, guilt maybe, or regret.
No, he says quietly. You don't deserve any of this. But you're here anyway, and now we both have to live with my choice.
Do you regret it? Saving me?
He's quiet for so long I think he won't answer. Then: Ask me again in a month. If we're both still alive, I'll tell you the truth.
The door closes, leaving me alone with designer clothes and questions I'm terrified to answer.
I change into the softest pajamas I've ever worn and climb into a bed that costs more than my education. But sleep won't come. Every time I close my eyes, I see Tony's body hitting the floor. See the gun in Marco's hand. See my own death waiting in the shadows.
Somewhere across the hall, Marco is probably lying awake too, wondering if saving me was the biggest mistake of his life.
And in some office downtown, Giovanni Vitale is probably already planning how to test whether his son's confession is real or just another lie in a family built on lies.
Three people, three different fears, all connected by one impulsive decision in a warehouse.
I pull the covers up to my chin and stare at the unfamiliar ceiling.
Tomorrow, Marco will teach me how to be his boyfriend. How to touch him, how to look at him, how to lie so convincingly that even Chicago's most dangerous man believes it.
Tomorrow, my education in deception begins.
Tonight, I'm just a terrified grad student who stumbled into hell and somehow came out alive.
For now.
The clock on the nightstand reads 2:47 AM.
And I still can't stop shaking.