Ezra's POV
You're doing it wrong.
Marco's voice cuts through my panic as I try for the fifth time to stand next to him without looking like I'm about to bolt. We're in his penthouse living room, and he's been teaching me how to be his boyfriend for the past hour. I'm failing spectacularly.
I don't understand what I'm doing wrong! I snap, frustration overriding fear for once. I'm standing next to you. That's what couples do.
Couples who've been together for three months don't stand like strangers at a bus stop. Marco moves closer, and I force myself not to flinch. When I'm near you in public, you need to look comfortable. Like you want me there.
That's called acting. I'm an economics major, not a theater student.
His lips twitch, almost a smile. Then you better learn fast. My world notices everything. One wrong move and they'll know this is fake.
Three days. I've been living in Marco's penthouse for three days, and it still feels like a nightmare I can't wake up from. The apartment is all floor-to-ceiling windows and expensive furniture I'm afraid to touch. My own room has a bed bigger than my entire old apartment. Marco gave me a credit card with no limit and told me to buy whatever I need.
I haven't used it once. Taking his money feels like accepting this is real.
Try again, Marco says. Stand next to me like you actually like me.
I step closer, acutely aware of the heat radiating from his body. He smells like expensive cologne and danger—a combination I'm learning to associate with survival.
Better. His hand settles on my lower back, and I jump. But you need to stop flinching when I touch you.
Stop touching me like you're about to stab me, and maybe I will.
This time he actually smiles. Fair enough.
He removes his hand, and I'm surprised by the immediate loss of warmth.
Look, Marco says, his tone softer. I know this is terrifying. But we need to be convincing. That means getting comfortable with physical contact. So let's practice something simple.
Like what?
Holding hands.
I stare at him. You're joking.
Do I look like I'm joking? He extends his hand. Come on. It's just hands, Ezra.
Just hands attached to a man who killed someone three days ago. Just hands that could kill me just as easily.
But those same hands have been surprisingly gentle since the warehouse. Marco hasn't forced anything, hasn't pushed me beyond what I can handle. He gave me my own space and treats me like a person, not a prisoner.
I take his hand.
His fingers curl around mine, warm, firm, careful. My pulse skyrockets, and I know he can feel it through my wrist.
Relax, he murmurs. Breathe. I'm not going to hurt you.
You could, I whisper. So easily.
Yes. But I won't. His thumb strokes the back of my hand in a gesture so gentle it makes my chest ache. You're safe with me, Ezra. I promise.
I want to believe him. God, I want to believe him so badly it scares me.
We stand there for a long moment, just holding hands like normal people instead of a criminal and his fake boyfriend. Then Marco's phone buzzes, and reality crashes back.
Time to practice in public, he says, releasing my hand. We're going to dinner.
The restaurant is the kind of place where entrees cost more than my weekly grocery budget used to. Crystal chandeliers, white tablecloths, waiters in bow ties. Everyone here looks rich and powerful.
Everyone stares at us.
Ignore them, Marco says quietly as we're led to a private corner table. His hand rests on my lower back, possessive but not aggressive. They're just curious.
About what?
About you. I'm Marco Vitale. I don't date. Ever. His lips curve slightly. Until now.
We sit, and Marco immediately reaches across the table to take my hand. The gesture looks natural, romantic even. Like he actually wants to touch me.
My heart does something complicated in my chest.
Why are they whispering? I ask, noticing the other diners' not-so-subtle glances.
Because the Vitale heir just walked in holding hands with another man. Marco's voice is calm, but I see tension in his jaw. By tomorrow, everyone in Chicago will know. Including my father.
The food turns to ash in my mouth. I thought you wanted to keep this secret?
I did. But secrets in my world don't last long. His thumb traces circles on my palm—soothing and terrifying at once. Better to control the narrative before someone else does.
A older couple at the next table whispers loud enough for us to hear: Isn't that Giovanni Vitale's son? With a boy?
Marco's grip tightens on my hand, but his expression doesn't change.
Look at me, he says quietly.
I meet his eyes, dark, intense, focused entirely on me like nothing else in the world matters.
Good. Keep looking at me like that. Like I'm the only person here.
Why?
Because that's how people in love look at each other. His voice drops lower. And we need them to believe we're in love, remember?
Right. Performance. This is all performance.
So why does his gaze make my stomach flutter?
Marco leans across the table, close enough that I smell his cologne. I'm going to kiss you now. Just a small one. Is that okay?
My breath catches. Why ask permission?
Because consent matters, even in fake relationships. His eyes search mine. So? Is it okay?
I should say no. Should maintain some distance, some sanity.
Instead, I nod.
Marco's hand cups my face, and he presses his lips to mine—soft, brief, almost sweet. Nothing like the desperate kiss in the warehouse. This one feels practiced, perfect for the cameras I'm sure are watching.
When he pulls back, my heart is racing again.
Perfect, he murmurs, settling back in his seat but keeping hold of my hand. See? Not so hard.
Except it is hard. Because that kiss felt real even though I know it wasn't. Because Marco is looking at me with warmth in his eyes that can't possibly be genuine. Because I'm starting to forget this is all a lie to keep me alive.
We finish dinner with Marco playing the attentive boyfriend—refilling my water, asking about my day, laughing at my awkward jokes like they're actually funny. Every gesture feels natural, practiced, perfect.
I almost believe it myself.
Back in the car, Marco's phone rings. He glances at the screen, and his entire body goes rigid.
Who is it? I ask.
My father. His voice is flat. He wants to meet you. Tomorrow morning.
The air leaves my lungs. Already?
I told you—news travels fast. Marco answers the call, his tone shifting to something cold and controlled. Yes, Father. I understand. Ten o'clock. We'll be there.
He hangs up and sits in silence for a long moment, staring through the windshield.
Marco?
He knows about us. Marco's knuckles are white on the steering wheel. The dinner, the hand-holding, everything. Someone sent him photos.
What does that mean?
He finally looks at me, and for the first time since the warehouse, I see genuine fear in his eyes.
It means tomorrow you meet Don Giovanni Vitale. The man who's killed people for far less than what we're doing. Marco's hand finds mine again—gripping tight, like he's trying to anchor both of us. And if he thinks for one second that this relationship is fake, or that you're a threat to his empire...
He doesn't finish. Doesn't need to.
What do I do? My voice cracks. How do I convince him?
You tell him exactly what I taught you. You look him in the eye and sell this lie better than you've ever sold anything. Marco's thumb strokes my hand—a gesture that's becoming familiar, almost comforting. But Ezra, you need to understand something.
What?
His eyes hold mine, dark and deadly serious.
My father is the most dangerous man in Chicago. He's survived forty years in this business by being smarter, more ruthless, and more paranoid than everyone else. He'll test you. He'll try to break you. And if he decides you're lying...
Marco's grip tightens until it almost hurts.
He won't just kill you. He'll kill both of us. Slowly. As an example to anyone else who thinks they can deceive him.
The car feels impossibly small, impossibly cold.
So be smart tomorrow, Marco whispers. Be perfect. Because one wrong word, one hesitation, one moment of fear, and we're both dead.
He releases my hand and starts the car.
I stare out the window at Chicago's glittering skyline and try not to think about the fact that in twelve hours, I'll be sitting across from the monster who raised Marco to be a killer.
And if I fail, if I can't sell this lie well enough?
We'll both be corpses by noon.