“Keep Your Distance,” the Mafia Boss Warned—But I Had Already Fallen for Him

“Keep Your Distance,” the Mafia Boss Warned—But I Had Already Fallen for Him

The yellow Beetle backfired 3 times before it finally sputtered to a stop in front of the massive iron gates. I patted the dashboard, ignoring the cloud of smoke billowing from the exhaust. This car and I had crossed half the country together, and if she wanted to make a dramatic entrance, I was not going to judge her for it.

The gates belonged to a mansion that looked as if it had been designed by someone with unlimited money and no sense of humor. It was all sharp angles and dark stone, looming over a circular driveway where black luxury cars sat like sleeping predators. My yellow Bug looked like a canary that had wandered into a den of panthers.

I was reaching for my phone to call Aunt Caroline when the gates simply swung open. No intercom. No questions. Just an invitation into a world I already suspected might swallow me whole if I let it.

The driveway seemed endless. I counted 5 security cameras before I stopped counting. Each one tracked my noisy progress toward the front entrance. By the time I parked between a Mercedes and what I was fairly certain was a Bentley, I had already spotted 2 men in dark suits. They stood at different corners of the property, pretending not to watch me.

“Welcome to Chicago, April,” I muttered, grabbing my camera bag and the wilting flowers I had bought at a gas station. The flowers had seemed like a good idea in Indiana. Now they just looked sad.

The front door opened before I could knock. A woman in her early 50s appeared, her face lighting with genuine warmth that seemed out of place in such a fortress.

“April,” she said, pulling me into a hug that smelled like expensive perfume and vanilla. “I’m so glad you made it safely.”

Caroline, my father’s sister, looked nothing like him. Where he had been broad and gruff, she was elegant and refined, though her eyes held the same sharp intelligence.

“The drive was longer than I expected,” I admitted, offering her the flowers with an apologetic smile. “These looked better 6 hours ago.”

She laughed and accepted them graciously. “They’re perfect. Come in. I’ve been so excited to have you here.”

The interior of the house was somehow both opulent and cold. Marble floors, crystal chandeliers, artwork that probably cost more than my entire college fund. But it was the silence that struck me most. A house that size should have had sounds, echoes of life. Instead, it felt muffled. Controlled.

“Your uncle had to work late,” Caroline explained as she led me through corridors that seemed to multiply. “But he’s looking forward to meeting you at dinner. And King should be here soon.”

King.

I had heard that name exactly 3 times during our phone calls. Always in passing. Always with a slight change in Caroline’s tone that I could not quite read. Her stepson. Roughly my age. From what little she had shared, someone who ran their family’s business with an iron fist.

“Looking forward to it,” I lied, following her up a sweeping staircase.

My room was on the 3rd floor, overlooking a garden that looked too perfect to be real. Everything in it probably lined up according to some mathematical formula. The room itself was beautiful, decorated in shades of cream and gold that made me immediately worry about spilling something.

After Caroline left with promises of dinner at 7:00, I unpacked my camera equipment first and my clothes second. Priorities.

The light coming through the windows was incredible, golden and diffused. I spent 20 minutes photographing the way shadows fell across the furniture, adjusting angles and testing exposures. I was hanging upside down off the bed, trying to get a shot of the ceiling fixture, when I heard footsteps in the hallway.

They stopped outside my door.

Not the uncertain pause of someone about to knock, but the weighted silence of someone deciding whether to interrupt.

I stayed perfectly still, camera aimed at the door, waiting.

The footsteps moved on.

Dinner was scheduled for 7:00. At 6:55, I changed out of my travel clothes into a simple black dress that Caroline had insisted I bring. Not too formal, not too casual. I was aiming for “I belong here” when I absolutely did not.

The dining room could have hosted a small wedding. A table that seated 20 had been set for 4. All the place settings were clustered at one end, as though we were trying to have an intimate dinner in a cathedral. Caroline was already there, arranging flowers in a vase.

Her husband, Marcus, stood by the window with a phone pressed to his ear, his back to the room. He was exactly what I had expected: tall, broad-shouldered, in an expensive suit, with the kind of presence that demanded attention without asking for it. When he turned and saw me, his expression shifted from business to something warmer.

“You must be April,” he said, ending his call and crossing the room to shake my hand. His grip was firm but not crushing. “Caroline’s told me a lot about you. Welcome to Chicago.”

“Thank you for having me,” I replied, trying not to stare at the scar that ran from his left temple down to his jaw. It looked old and professional, the kind of mark that came with stories people did not tell at dinner parties.

We were making small talk about my drive when I felt it: that prickle at the back of your neck when you are being watched.

I turned toward the doorway and found myself looking at the most beautiful and terrifying man I had ever seen.

He stood in the entrance as if he owned not only the room but the air inside it. He was tall, maybe 6’2”, with dark hair that fell slightly over his forehead despite obvious attempts to control it. Sharp jaw. Sharper cheekbones. Eyes somewhere between gray and green, cold enough to make me wonder if the temperature had dropped.

But it was the way he looked at me that stopped my breath. Not with interest, curiosity, or welcome. He looked at me like I was a problem he was already calculating how to solve.

“King,” Caroline said warmly, though I caught the slight nervousness in her voice. “Come meet April.”

He moved with controlled grace, the kind that made me very aware he could move much faster if he wanted to. In 3 steps, he was close enough that I had to tilt my head back slightly to maintain eye contact.

“April,” he said, my name flat and emotionless in his mouth. “Welcome.”

He did not offer his hand. He did not smile. He only studied me with those cold eyes, cataloging every detail for future reference.

“Thanks,” I managed, refusing to look away first. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

His eyebrow shifted a fraction of an inch. Barely perceptible, but I caught it.

“Have you?”

Before I could respond, Marcus cleared his throat. “Shall we sit? Dinner’s ready.”

The meal was some kind of elaborate Italian dish that probably had a name I could not pronounce. I focused on my food, hyperaware of King sitting directly across from me. He ate in silence, answering Caroline’s questions with monosyllables, his attention seemingly elsewhere. But every time I glanced up, I found him looking at me. Not obviously. Not inappropriately. Just quick, assessing glances that made my skin prickle.

I responded by doing what I always did when I was uncomfortable: becoming aggressively cheerful.

“So, King,” I said, spearing a piece of pasta with perhaps more enthusiasm than necessary. “What do you do? Caroline mentioned you work with your father.”

The temperature in the room seemed to drop 10°. Marcus shifted in his seat. Caroline’s fork paused halfway to her mouth. King only looked at me with those dead eyes.

“I manage the family business,” he said finally. His voice was deep and controlled, each word measured. “Import, export, logistics.”

“Sounds exciting,” I lied. “What do you import?”

“Whatever our clients need.”

The silence that followed was deafening. I had clearly stepped into some conversational minefield everyone else could see, and I had walked straight through it.

“April’s here to finish her photography degree,” Caroline said, her voice bright with forced cheer. “At the Art Institute. She’s incredibly talented.”

King’s gaze shifted slightly, landing on the camera bag I had left by the door. “You bring that everywhere?”

“Pretty much,” I admitted. “You never know when you’ll see something worth capturing.”

His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “I prefer not to be photographed.”

“Noted,” I replied, matching his flat tone. “I only shoot willing subjects.”

Something flickered in his eyes. Amusement, maybe. Or challenge. It was gone too quickly to tell.

The rest of dinner passed in uncomfortable small talk. Marcus asked about my classes. Caroline wanted to know about my apartment search. I answered automatically while trying to figure out the man across from me. Every time anyone mentioned anything remotely personal, King’s walls went up higher. He volunteered nothing, deflected everything, and made it clear he would rather be anywhere else.

As coffee was being served, Marcus’s phone buzzed. He glanced at it, frowned, and stood.

“I need to handle something. King, can you drive April back to her hotel?”

“I can take her,” Caroline offered immediately.

“You have that charity meeting in 20 minutes,” Marcus reminded her. “King can do it.”

King’s expression did not change, but I saw his hand tighten around his coffee cup.

“Sure.”

Ten minutes later, I was sitting in the passenger seat of a black Audi worth more than my entire education, desperately trying to think of something to say to break the suffocating silence. The hotel was downtown, about a 20-minute drive. King drove the way he did everything else, with absolute precision and no wasted movement. His hands were steady on the wheel. His eyes stayed focused on the road. He had not said a word since we left.

I lasted 12 minutes.

“Do you always look like you’re planning someone’s murder?” I asked. “Or am I special?”

His eyes flicked to me briefly before returning to the road. “What?”

“Your face. You’ve been scowling since the moment you saw me. Is it me specifically, or do you hate everyone equally?”

For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, impossibly, the corner of his mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, but close enough to count as a miracle.

“I don’t hate you.”

“Wow. Such warmth. I’m overwhelmed.”

This time, he definitely almost smiled. “I don’t know you well enough to hate you.”

“Give it time,” I suggested cheerfully. “I’m very easy to hate. I talk too much, I ask inappropriate questions, and I’m told my laugh is annoying.”

“Who told you your laugh was annoying?”

“My ex-boyfriend. Right before I threw his Xbox into a lake.”

Now he did smile, barely, just enough to crack that perfect control. “Why did you throw his Xbox into a lake?”

“Because he cheated on me with my roommate in our apartment while I was at class.”

The smile faded. His jaw tightened again. “What was his name?”

The question caught me off guard. “Why?”

“Just curious.”

Something in his tone made my stomach flip. It was the same tone he had used when Marcus mentioned business at dinner. Casual words wrapped around something much sharper.

“Ancient history,” I said quickly. “Not worth remembering.”

We pulled up to the hotel, a modest chain place that was clean and affordable and absolutely nothing like the mansion I had just left. King put the car in park but did not turn off the engine.

“Thank you for the ride,” I said, reaching for the door handle.

“April.”

I paused, looking back at him in the dim dashboard light. His eyes looked darker. More intense.

“Be careful in this city,” he said quietly. “It’s not what you’re used to.”

“I grew up in Detroit,” I countered. “I think I can handle Chicago.”

“Detroit doesn’t have me in it.”

The words hung in the air between us, weighted with meaning I could not decipher. A warning. A threat. Something else entirely.

“Good to know,” I managed, pushing the door open. “Thanks again for the ride.”

I was halfway to the hotel entrance when he called out. I turned to see him leaning out the driver’s window, his face half in shadow.

“That laugh,” he said, and I had to strain to hear him over the street noise. “It’s not annoying.”

Then he was gone, the Audi disappearing into Chicago traffic, leaving me standing on the sidewalk with my heart doing things it absolutely should not have been doing.

I was in so much trouble.

The Chicago Institute of Photography was everything I had hoped for: an old building, new equipment, professors who actually cared, and classmates who ranged from brilliant to pretentious with very little in between. I loved it immediately.

What I did not love was the apartment search. After 2 weeks of looking at places that were either too expensive, too small, or too likely to get me murdered, I was ready to live in my car. Caroline had offered to let me stay at the mansion, but something about that felt wrong. Dangerous, even, though I could not articulate why.

It definitely had nothing to do with her stepson, whom I absolutely had not been thinking about constantly. Except I had. Those cold eyes. That almost-smile. The way he looked at me like I was a puzzle he could not solve. And that final comment about my laugh, delivered like a secret before he disappeared into the night.

I was sitting in a coffee shop near campus, scrolling through apartment listings that all looked identical, when my phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number.

Stop looking at that place on Western. The landlord has warrants.

I stared at the screen, my coffee forgotten.

How did you get my number?

The response came immediately.

Does it matter? The place is a trap.

King?

Three dots appeared, then disappeared.

Yes.

How do you know what apartments I’m looking at?

Because I’m having you followed.

I nearly dropped my phone.

You’re what?

For your safety. Chicago isn’t Detroit.

The absolute audacity. The presumption. I looked around the coffee shop like I might suddenly spot whoever was tailing me. Everyone looked suspicious. The guy on the laptop could be a spy. The woman with the stroller could be concealing surveillance equipment. I was being ridiculous.

Stop having me followed, I typed furiously. That’s creepy and illegal and absolutely not okay.

Would you prefer I let something happen to you and then deal with Caroline’s disappointment?

So you’re doing this for Caroline?

The pause before his response was longer this time.

Yes.

Liar, I thought, but did not type it.

Instead, I wrote, I can take care of myself.

I know. I saw your Detroit credentials. Very impressive. Still doesn’t change the fact that you’re in my city now.

Your city? How very mob boss of you.

This time, the pause stretched so long I thought he had stopped responding.

Then there’s an apartment building on Lake Shore. Number 447. Second-floor unit just opened up. It’s safe, clean, and affordable. The super’s name is Mrs. Chen. Tell her Marcus sent you.

And if I don’t want your help?

Then don’t take it. But the offer stands.

I should have been angry. I should have told him exactly where he could shove his apartment recommendation, his surveillance, and his entire controlling attitude. Instead, curiosity won out over common sense, and I found myself pulling up the address.

The building was beautiful: old Chicago brick, well-maintained, in a neighborhood that actually looked livable. The rent was within my budget. Barely. Mrs. Chen was a tiny Chinese woman who took one look at me and said, “Marcus’s niece. Come, come. I show you.”

The apartment was perfect. Exposed brick, high ceilings, windows that let in actual sunlight. There was even room for a darkroom if I wanted to set one up. It was too good to be true, which meant it probably was.

I took it anyway.

My classes started in earnest the following week. I threw myself into them with the desperate enthusiasm of someone trying very hard not to think about certain gray-green eyes. Photography theory, digital processing, a seminar on documentary photography taught by a professor who had worked for National Geographic. I was in heaven.

I was also apparently still being followed.

I spotted him on Tuesday: a tall man in a leather jacket, always about half a block behind me. Wednesday, it was a different man, shorter, in a baseball cap. By Thursday, I had identified at least 3 different people rotating surveillance.

It should have terrified me. Instead, I found it almost funny. King was protecting me whether I wanted it or not, and there was something darkly amusing about his absolute refusal to let me refuse his help.

Friday night, Caroline called to invite me to dinner at the mansion again. I should have said no. I should have established boundaries, created distance, done literally anything except what I did, which was say yes immediately.

This time, King answered the door himself.

He was wearing jeans—actual jeans—paired with a black T-shirt that did nothing to hide the lean muscle underneath. His hair was slightly damp, like he had just showered, and he smelled like something expensive and masculine that made my brain short-circuit.

“Hi,” I managed, my vocabulary apparently reduced to a single syllable.

“April.” He stepped back to let me in, his eyes doing that scanning thing again. “How’s the apartment?”

“Perfect, actually.” I clutched my camera bag tighter. “Thank you for the recommendation.”

“Mrs. Chen called me. She says you’re very polite.”

“You have my landlord reporting to you. That’s not creepy at all.”

Was that almost another smile?

“I ensure my investments are sound.”

“I’m not your investment.”

“No,” he agreed, closing the door behind me. “You’re Caroline’s niece, which makes you family. And I take care of family.”

“By stalking them?”

“By keeping them safe.”

We stood in the foyer, too close. The air between us was charged with something I did not want to name. He smelled really good. It was distracting.

“Dinner won’t be ready for another hour,” he said finally. “Caroline’s still cooking. Marcus is dealing with something in his office.”

“Should I wait in the living room?”

“You could.” He paused, and I saw him weighing something internal. “Or I could show you the garden. You mentioned wanting to photograph it.”

I had mentioned that in passing during that awkward first dinner. The fact that he remembered made my stomach do complicated things.

“That would be nice,” I said carefully.

The garden was even more beautiful at dusk, all strategic lighting and carefully cultivated wildness that probably took an army of gardeners to maintain. King walked beside me in silence as I photographed angles and shadows, occasionally adjusting my position but never actually posing.

“You’re good at that,” he said after several minutes.

“At what?”

“Seeing things others don’t. The way you frame shots. It’s like you’re finding stories in shadows.”

I lowered my camera to look at him. “That was almost poetic. Are you feeling okay?”

His mouth quirked. “Don’t get used to it.”

I turned back to the garden, aiming at a fountain that caught the light perfectly. “So, what’s your story, King? Why does everyone act like they’re walking on eggshells around you?”

“Because they are.”

“Why?”

“Because I make people nervous.” The answer was matter-of-fact. “I’m good at it.”

“I’m not nervous.”

“You should be.”

I lowered my camera again and met his gaze directly. “Why? What are you going to do? Scowl at me intimidatingly?”

Something flickered in his eyes. Not quite amusement, but close.

“Would that work?”

“Probably not. I’m pretty scowl-resistant.”

“I’ve noticed.”

We stood there, not quite smiling at each other, the silence stretching but no longer uncomfortable. This close, I could see flecks of gold in his eyes. I could count the individual stubble along his jaw. He really was unfairly attractive, and the way he was looking at me made it very hard to remember why getting involved with my aunt’s stepson was a terrible idea.

“April,” he started, then stopped. He frowned, tried again. “You should probably keep your distance from me.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m not…” He gestured vaguely.

“Safe?”

“Nobody interesting is safe.”

“I’m serious.” His voice dropped lower, more intense. “You don’t know what I’m involved in. What my life is like.”

“Then tell me.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because once you know, you can’t unknow it. And right now you get to be normal. Keep that as long as you can.”

The words should have scared me. They should have sent me running back to my perfect new apartment to pack my bags and flee to Detroit. Instead, they only made me more curious.

“What if I don’t want to be normal?”

“Trust me,” he said softly. “You do.”

Caroline called us in for dinner before I could argue. We ate pasta, made small talk, and pretended the conversation in the garden had not happened. But every time I looked up, I found King watching me with an expression I could not read.

After dinner, I excused myself to use the bathroom. On my way back, I got turned around in the labyrinth of corridors and ended up in a part of the house I had not seen before. The decor changed there, becoming darker, more masculine. I was pretty sure I had wandered into King’s wing.

I should have turned back. I should have retraced my steps.

Instead, I kept walking, drawn by curiosity and the faint sound of music coming from one of the rooms.

The door was slightly ajar. Through the gap, I could see what looked like a home office: dark wood, leather furniture, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, and King sitting at a desk with his back to the door, phone pressed to his ear.

“I don’t care what he wants,” King was saying, his voice cold and hard in a way I had not heard before. “The shipment needs to be there Tuesday or the deal’s off. No extensions. No excuses.”

He listened to whoever was on the other end, his free hand curling into a fist on the desk.

“Then make him understand,” King continued. “Use whatever methods are necessary. I don’t care if he’s scared. That’s the point.”

I backed away slowly, my heart pounding.

Whatever methods are necessary.

The words echoed in my head as I finally found my way back to the dining room, where Caroline was serving coffee.

“You okay?” she asked, noting my expression. “You look pale.”

“Just got a little lost,” I said, forcing a smile. “This house is huge.”

King appeared in the doorway moments later, looking perfectly composed again. Nothing in his demeanor suggested I had just overheard him casually discussing violence.

“I should get going,” I said abruptly, standing. “Early class tomorrow.”

“I’ll drive you,” King offered immediately.

“That’s okay. I can call an Uber.”

“Don’t be silly,” Caroline interjected. “King doesn’t mind, do you, dear?”

“Not at all.”

The drive back to my apartment was silent and tense. I stared out the window, processing what I had heard, trying to reconcile it with the man who had commented on my photography and worried about my safety.

We were 3 blocks from my building when King finally spoke.

“You heard my phone call.”

It was not a question. I did not bother denying it.

“Some of it.”

“And now you’re scared.”

“Should I be?”

He pulled over, killed the engine, and turned to face me fully. His expression was unreadable in the darkness.

“Yes,” he said simply. “You absolutely should be.”

“Are you trying to scare me away?”

“I’m trying to be honest with you.” Something in his voice softened. “You’re Caroline’s niece. You’re sweet and funny. You see the world through that camera like it’s all just beauty waiting to be captured. That’s not my world, April. My world is dark and violent and full of people who would hurt you just to get to me.”

“I’m tougher than I look.”

“I know. But tough isn’t enough. Not for what I do.”

We sat in silence for a long moment. I should have been terrified. I should have thanked him for the ride and never looked back. Instead, I found myself reaching for the door handle with strange reluctance.

“Thank you for being honest,” I said quietly.

“April.”

I paused and looked back at him.

“That apartment on Lake Shore,” he said. “The one I recommended. It’s in a building I own. The security is connected to my system. If anything happens, anything at all, I’ll know immediately.”

“You put me in your building without telling me.”

“For your safety.”

“That’s not your decision to make.”

“No.” His eyes met mine, intense and unwavering. “But I made it anyway. Stay angry at me if you want. Just stay safe.”

I got out of the car without another word, torn between fury and something that felt dangerously like attraction.

As I watched him drive away, I realized I had learned 3 important things that night. King was definitely involved in something illegal. He thought I was sweet, funny, and saw beauty in the world.

And I was absolutely, definitely, completely in trouble.

Part 2

The photography club met every Wednesday at midnight in an old warehouse on the South Side. I had found out about it through a classmate, Emma, who had promised me it was the best place in Chicago to shoot real, gritty, unfiltered city life.

What she had failed to mention was that the warehouse doubled as an underground club.

I realized my mistake the moment I walked in. The main floor had been converted into a space that was half art gallery and half nightclub. Photographs lined the walls, lit by strategic spotlights that created dramatic shadows. Beyond the gallery space was a bar, a dance floor, and enough pulsing music to make my teeth vibrate.

“This is amazing,” Emma shouted over the bass. “Come on. Let’s get drinks.”

I followed her through the crowd, camera hanging around my neck, trying to take in everything at once. The lighting was perfect for moody, high-contrast shots. Shadows cut across faces, turning everyone into anonymous figures. It was photographer heaven.

It was also, I was starting to realize, the kind of place that attracted a very specific clientele. The men at the bar all had the same dangerous edge, the same watchful eyes. The women were beautiful and expensive-looking. And in the back corner, separated from everyone else by an invisible line no one seemed willing to cross, sat a group that made everyone else look tame.

“Don’t,” Emma hissed, catching me staring. “Don’t even look at them.”

“Who are they?”

“Nobody you want to know. Come on. Let’s shoot the east wall.”

But I had already seen him.

King sat at the center of that untouchable group, dressed all in black, his posture relaxed but his eyes alert. He looked as if he belonged there, in a world of shadows and secrets.

And he was looking directly at me.

Our eyes met across the crowded room. Even from that distance, I could feel the impact of his gaze. He did not smile. He did not nod. He did not acknowledge me at all. But I saw recognition flash in his eyes, followed immediately by something that looked like resignation.

“I have to use the bathroom,” I told Emma, already moving.

I did not go to the bathroom. I went straight to the back corner, weaving through the crowd with my heart pounding and my common sense screaming at me to turn around.

King watched me approach with an expression that could have been carved from stone. The men around him shifted, tensing, but he raised one hand slightly and they settled back down.

“April,” he said when I reached the table. His voice was flat and emotionless. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“It’s a photography club,” I countered. “I’m a photographer. Pretty sure I’m exactly where I should be.”

“This isn’t the kind of club Caroline would approve of.”

“Good thing I’m not Caroline.”

One of the other men snorted with laughter, quickly turning it into a cough when King’s gaze shifted to him. The temperature around the table seemed to drop 10°.

“Do you know who I am?” King asked quietly.

“You’re my aunt’s stepson. You run the family business. You drive a very nice car, and you have terrible taste in surveillance teams because I spotted all 3 of them this week.”

Another snort of laughter, this time from a different man. King’s jaw tightened.

“You should leave now.”

“Or what? You’ll have me escorted out? Call my aunt? Send one of your guys to follow me home?” I crossed my arms. “I’m here to take photos, not bother you. Pretend I don’t exist. You’re good at that.”

Something dangerous flashed in his eyes. “I’ve never pretended you don’t exist.”

“Could have fooled me.”

We stared at each other, the music pounding around us, neither willing to back down. He was attractive when he was angry. His jaw was tight, his eyes intense, and an energy rolled off him that made my skin tingle.

“Fine,” he said finally. “Take your photos. But stay away from the back rooms.”

“Why? What’s in the back rooms?”

“Things you don’t want to see.”

“How very mysterious.” I raised my camera, framing him in the viewfinder. “Smile for the camera, King.”

His hand shot out, covering my lens before I could click.

“Don’t.”

“Why not? Afraid it’ll steal your soul?”

“I don’t want evidence.”

“Of what?”

“Of anything.”

Our faces were inches apart now. His hand was still on my camera. His breath was warm against my cheek. This close, I could see the flecks of gold in his eyes again. I could smell that intoxicating cologne. My heart was doing gymnastics in my chest.

“You’re trouble,” he said softly. “So much trouble.”

“Says the guy who casually discusses violence on phone calls.”

“You were eavesdropping.”

“You were talking loud enough to hear.”

“That was private.”

“Then close your door next time.”

His lips twitched. Not quite a smile, but close.

“You’re impossible.”

“I’ve been told that before.”

“By the ex with the Xbox.”

“You remember that?”

“I remember everything you tell me.”

The admission hung between us, weighted with meaning. His hand was still on my camera. His body was still too close. His eyes were still doing that intense thing that made my brain short-circuit.

“King.” One of his men interrupted, his voice apologetic. “We need to discuss the thing.”

King’s gaze never left mine. “Give me a minute.”

“But, sir—”

“I said give me a minute.”

The man retreated.

King finally released my camera, but he did not step back. If anything, he moved closer.

“This place isn’t safe for you,” he said quietly. “These aren’t good people, April.”

“And you are?”

“No.” His honesty was brutal. “I’m probably the worst person in this room, which is exactly why you should leave.”

“What if I don’t want to?”

“Why?” He looked genuinely confused. “Why would you stay near someone like me?”

“Because,” I said, surprised by my own honesty. “Because you’re the first interesting thing that’s happened to me in Chicago. Because you look at me like I’m a puzzle you can’t solve. Because I heard you on that phone call, and instead of running away, I want to understand. Because…”

“Because what?”

“Because when you’re around, I feel more alive than I have in years.”

The confession hung in the air between us. King’s expression shifted, something raw and unguarded flickering across his face before he locked it down again.

“That’s the worst reason I’ve ever heard,” he said roughly.

“Probably.” I shrugged. “Still true.”

“April.” He started, stopped, closed his eyes, and took a breath. When he opened them again, the walls were back up, the control firmly in place. “I can’t do this.”

“Do what?”

“Whatever this is.” He gestured between us. “You’re Caroline’s niece. You’re in my city to finish school and build a life. I’m not part of that life. I can’t be.”

“Why not?”

“Because everyone close to me gets hurt. It’s not metaphorical, April. It’s literal. My father was shot in front of me when I was 8. My mother died 3 years later because someone wanted to hurt me. My last girlfriend…” He stopped, his jaw working. “Let’s just say she’s not my girlfriend anymore, and not by choice.”

The words were delivered flatly, emotionlessly. But I heard the pain underneath. The guilt. The absolute certainty that he was toxic to everyone around him.

“I’m not afraid of you,” I said softly.

“You should be. Everyone else is.”

“I’m not everyone else.”

“No.” His eyes met mine, and for just a second, I saw past all the walls to the person underneath. “You’re really not.”

We stood there in our bubble of tension, the club pounding around us, neither of us willing to break the moment. I wanted to touch him. I wanted to smooth away the line between his eyebrows. I wanted to tell him he was not poison, that he deserved something good, that I could be that good thing.

But I did not.

Because as much as I wanted to believe it, I had heard that phone call. I had seen the fear in Emma’s eyes when she told me to stay away from his corner. I knew, deep down, that King was exactly as dangerous as he said he was.

“I should go,” I said finally.

“Yeah.” He stepped back, creating distance. “You should.”

I made it halfway across the room before I looked back. He was already surrounded by his men again, his attention on whatever business they needed to discuss. But as I watched, he glanced up, his eyes finding mine across the crowd.

We stared at each other for a long moment.

Then he smiled.

A real smile. Small and private, just for me.

Then he turned away, back to his dark world, leaving me standing in the middle of a club full of strangers with my heart racing and my common sense in tatters.

Emma found me moments later.

“Please tell me you didn’t just talk to King Moretti.”

“I might have.”

“Are you insane? Do you know who he is? What he does?”

“I’m starting to get an idea.”

“April.” She grabbed my arm, her face serious. “King Moretti is not someone you play with. He’s dangerous. Actually dangerous. People-who-cross-him-disappear dangerous.”

“He hasn’t disappeared me yet.”

“Yet being the key word.” She dragged me toward the exit. “Come on. We’re leaving before you do something else stupid.”

I let her pull me outside into the cool Chicago night. But as we walked to her car, I could not help touching my camera, thinking about the moment when King’s hand had covered my lens, when his face had been inches from mine, when he admitted he remembered everything I told him.

I was in so much trouble.

And the frightening part was that I was starting to think I did not want to get out of it.

The next morning, I woke up to 17 texts from Emma, all variations of “Stay away from King Moretti.” I was composing a response explaining that I absolutely, definitely, totally planned to do exactly that—I was lying—when there was a knock at my door.

I opened it to find a delivery guy holding an enormous bouquet of white roses.

“April Carter?” he asked, consulting his clipboard.

“That’s me.”

“These are for you. Sign here.”

I signed, carried the roses inside in a daze, and found the card tucked among the petals.

Stop going to underground clubs in dangerous neighborhoods. I won’t always be there to make sure you’re safe.

I should have been angry at the presumption, the control, the clear admission that he was still having me followed. Instead, I found myself smiling at the roses like an idiot.

I was definitely, absolutely, completely in trouble.

The roses sat on my kitchen counter for 3 days, mocking me with their perfect petals and even more perfect message. I photographed them obsessively from every angle in every light, as if capturing them properly would let me decode what they meant.

Stop going to dangerous places.

I won’t always be there.

Except he had been there. He had been watching. And some traitorous part of me liked that far more than I should have.

I was editing those photos when Caroline called.

“April, darling, I need a favor.”

I saved my work, already suspicious. Caroline’s favors tended to be elaborate. “What kind of favor?”

“There’s a charity gala tomorrow night. Very formal, very boring, but Marcus and I are required to attend. King was supposed to bring someone, but his date canceled last minute, and I thought perhaps you might—”

“Absolutely not.”

“It would just be as a family friend,” she continued as if I had not spoken. “Nothing romantic. Just so he doesn’t have to field questions all night about why he’s alone. You’d be doing him a favor, Caroline. And there will be incredible photo opportunities. Some of Chicago’s most influential people will be there. Think of it as networking.”

She knew exactly which buttons to push. I needed connections in the city. I needed to build a portfolio that would get me noticed. A charity gala full of Chicago’s elite was exactly the kind of event that could launch a career.

“Fine,” I said, already regretting it. “But I’m bringing my camera.”

“Of course, dear. King will pick you up at 7:00.”

She hung up before I could change my mind.

The next evening, I stood in front of my closet in my underwear, staring at the 3 dresses I owned that could possibly qualify as formal. None of them felt right. Too casual. Too cheap. Too obviously not designed for a world where people owned buildings and had people followed for their own safety.

I was contemplating wearing all black and claiming it was an artistic choice when someone knocked on my door.

“If that’s another delivery, I swear…”

I yanked the door open, then froze.

King stood in my hallway wearing a tuxedo that probably cost more than my car. His hair was styled back, his jaw clean-shaven, and he looked like he had stepped out of a cologne advertisement designed to make women forget their own names.

“You’re early,” I managed, very aware I was standing there in a bra and underwear.

His eyes traveled down, then back up, his expression carefully neutral except for a slight tightening around his mouth.

“So I see.”

We stood there for a long, awkward moment. I should have been embarrassed. I should have slammed the door and gotten dressed. Instead, I just stood there, watching him deliberately keep his eyes on my face.

“Are you going to let me in?” he asked finally. “Or should I wait in the hallway?”

I stepped back, gesturing him inside. He entered, moving past me with enough distance that we did not touch, then positioned himself facing the window while I grabbed a robe.

“You could have looked,” I said, tying the belt. “It’s not like I’m naked.”

“That’s not the point.”

“What is the point?”

“The point is, if I looked, I wouldn’t stop looking. And we’re already late.”

The words hung in the air between us, loaded with meaning. Heat crept up my neck as I processed what he had just admitted.

“Right,” I managed. “I’ll just get dressed.”

“April.”

I paused halfway to my bedroom.

He turned to face me now, his expression unreadable. “I brought you something.”

He held up a garment bag I had not noticed.

“Caroline mentioned you might need a dress.”

“I have dresses.”

“I know. But this one is better.”

I should have been offended. I should have told him I did not need his charity, his control, or his perfectly tailored solutions to problems I had not asked him to fix. Instead, I took the bag, carried it to my bedroom, and unzipped it.

The dress inside was midnight blue, simple but elegant, with a neckline that showed just enough to be interesting without being inappropriate. It was perfect. It was definitely designer.

I put it on, did my makeup in record time, and emerged to find King exactly where I had left him, staring out the window with his hands in his pockets.

“How do I look?” I asked.

He turned, and whatever he saw made him go very still. His eyes darkened. His jaw tightened. For a long moment, he just stared.

“You look…” He stopped. Tried again. “We should go.”

“That bad, huh?”

“April.” My name was almost a warning. “We really need to leave.”

The gala was being held at a museum I could not pronounce, all marble columns, soaring ceilings, and artwork that probably had armed guards. King’s hand settled at the small of my back as we entered, warm and possessive through the thin fabric of my dress.

“Stay close,” he murmured. “Some of these people are dangerous.”

“More dangerous than you?”

“Different kind of dangerous.”

Inside, the room was full of Chicago’s elite. Women in designer gowns. Men in expensive tuxedos. Everyone air-kissing, fake-laughing, and pretending they enjoyed spending thousands of dollars to stand around drinking champagne.

I raised my camera, framing a shot of the chandelier.

“Try to be subtle,” King said quietly.

“Subtle isn’t really my thing.”

“I’ve noticed.”

We circulated through the crowd, King introducing me as Caroline’s niece, his hand never leaving my back. I noticed the way people looked at us, the quick calculations in their eyes. They were trying to figure out what I was to him, and I was not sure I knew the answer myself.

“King.”

A woman in red materialized beside us, all white teeth and predatory eyes.

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” she said. “And with such lovely company.”

“Rebecca,” King said flatly. “April, this is Rebecca Vaughn. Rebecca, April Carter.”

“Carter,” Rebecca repeated, her eyes sharp. “Any relation to the Detroit Carters?”

“Just the poor ones,” I said cheerfully.

She laughed, but it did not reach her eyes. “How refreshing. King so rarely brings anyone to these events. You must be special.”

“Or available,” I countered. “His actual date canceled.”

King’s hand tightened on my back.

Rebecca’s smile sharpened. “Well, enjoy your evening. I’m sure we’ll be seeing more of you.”

“She seems nice,” I said once she was gone.

“She’s not.”

“I gathered that. What does she do?”

“Nothing you need to worry about.”

“King.”

“April.” He steered me toward a quieter corner. “Can you do me a favor and just enjoy the party without asking questions that will get you into trouble?”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

“You’re impossible.”

“You’ve mentioned.”

We stared at each other, his hand still on my back, our faces closer than strictly necessary. The moment stretched, tension building between us like a physical thing.

“I need a drink,” he said abruptly, stepping back. “Stay here.”

He disappeared into the crowd, leaving me alone. I raised my camera and captured candid shots of the room: a couple arguing in whispers, a man on his phone with a tense face, a woman laughing too loudly at something that clearly was not funny.

“You’re very good at that.”

I turned to find a man watching me. He was probably in his late 20s, expensively dressed, with the kind of smile that set off alarm bells.

“At what?”

“Seeing what people don’t want you to see.” He gestured to my camera. “Most photographers at these events take flattering shots. You’re documenting reality.”

“Reality is more interesting than flattery.”

“I agree.” He extended his hand. “David Chen.”

“April Carter.”

His grip was firm, lingering just slightly too long.

“So, you’re King’s date.”

“I’m his stepmother’s niece. There’s a difference.”

His smile widened. “The way he was looking at you suggested otherwise.”

Before I could respond, King reappeared, materializing beside me with 2 champagne flutes. His eyes went to David, then to our still-clasped hands, and something dangerous flickered across his face.

“Chen,” he said, his voice flat.

“Moretti.” David released my hand. “I was just introducing myself to your lovely companion.”

“So I see.”

The temperature seemed to drop 20°. I looked between them, recognizing the tension for what it was: 2 predators sizing each other up, deciding whether to fight or retreat.

“We were just talking about photography,” I said quickly. “David was commenting on my style.”

“I’m sure he was.” King handed me a champagne flute, then positioned himself slightly between me and David. “If you’ll excuse us, I need to introduce April to some people.”

“Of course.” David’s smile never wavered. “Enjoy your evening, April. I hope we meet again.”

King steered me away before I could respond, his hand now gripping my waist with barely controlled tension.

“That was rude,” I said.

“That was necessary.”

“Why? Who is he?”

“Someone you don’t want to know.”

“That seems to be everyone in your life.”

He stopped walking and turned to face me fully. “Yes, it is. Which is exactly why this”—he gestured between us—“is a bad idea.”

“What is this, exactly?”

“I don’t know.” The admission seemed to cost him. “But whatever it is, it needs to stop.”

“Why?”

“Because David Chen is dangerous. Rebecca Vaughn is dangerous. Every person in this room is dangerous in their own way, and the fact that you’re standing here with me makes you a target.”

“Maybe I don’t care.”

“Well, I do.” His voice was rough, intense. “I care, April. Which is the problem.”

We stood there in the middle of the glittering ballroom, surrounded by Chicago’s elite, having a conversation that felt too intimate for public consumption. His eyes were storm-dark, his jaw tight, and I could see the war taking place behind his carefully controlled expression.

“King,” I started.

“Dance with me,” he interrupted.

“What?”

“Dance with me. Just once. Then we’ll leave, and you can go back to your life, and I’ll go back to mine, and we’ll pretend this never happened.”

It was a terrible idea. We both knew it.

But when he offered his hand, I took it.

The orchestra was playing something slow and classical. King pulled me close, one hand settling on my waist, the other holding mine with surprising gentleness. We moved together easily, naturally, as if we had been doing this for years instead of seconds.

“You’re a good dancer,” I said, surprised.

“My mother insisted I learn. Said it was part of being civilized.”

“Was she right?”

“No. But I’m good at pretending.”

We turned slowly, the room spinning around us, everyone else fading into background noise. This close, I could smell his cologne. I could feel the warmth of his hand through my dress. I could see the way his eyes kept dropping to my mouth.

“April,” he said quietly. “You need to understand something.”

“What?”

“When I said everyone close to me gets hurt, I meant it. I’m not being dramatic or mysterious. I’m being literal. People die around me. People I care about. And I…” He stopped, his jaw working. “I can’t add you to that list.”

“Maybe I’m stronger than you think.”

“Maybe. But I’m not willing to test that theory.”

The song was ending. Our dance was finishing. This moment, whatever it was, was slipping away.

“What if I am?” I asked.

“What if you’re what?”

“Willing to test that theory.”

He stopped moving despite the music still playing. His eyes searched mine, looking for doubt, fear, common sense.

“Then you’re even more trouble than I thought,” he said softly.

“Good.” I smiled up at him. “I’d hate to disappoint.”

His lips quirked despite himself. “Impossible woman.”

“Impossible man.”

We stood there on the dance floor, not moving, just looking at each other. The moment stretched, loaded with possibility and danger, and something neither of us wanted to name.

Then his phone buzzed.

He pulled it out, glanced at the screen, and his entire demeanor changed. The softness disappeared, replaced by cold focus.

“We need to leave now.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Someone’s at your apartment.”

My blood ran cold. “What?”

“Someone triggered the security system. They’re inside.” He was already moving, pulling me through the crowd. “I need to get you somewhere safe.”

“But my things—”

“Can be replaced. You can’t.”

We reached his car in record time. He opened the passenger door, practically shoving me inside, then took off before I had even buckled my seat belt.

“Who is it?” I asked, my heart racing. “Who’s in my apartment?”

“I don’t know yet. But I’m going to find out.”

He drove like he was racing death itself, weaving through traffic with a precision that should have terrified me. His phone rang twice. He answered on speaker, barking orders in the cold voice I had heard during his business call.

“Status.”

“Three men, boss. They tripped the alarm at 9:47. Looked like they were searching for something.”

“Did they find it?”

“Don’t think so. They left when the alarm went off.”

“Get me everything. Photos, fingerprints, anything that tells me who they were and what they wanted.”

“Already on it.”

He ended the call, his knuckles white on the steering wheel.

“King,” I said carefully. “What’s happening?”

“What’s happening,” he said, his voice deadly calm, “is that someone just made a very big mistake.”

We pulled up to a building I did not recognize. King killed the engine, then turned to face me.

“You’re going to stay here tonight. It’s safe. I have people watching every entrance. Nobody gets in without my permission.”

“Where are you going?”

“To find out who broke into your apartment and make sure they never come near you again.”

“King—”

“April.” He cupped my face with both hands, his touch gentle despite the violence in his eyes. “I need you to trust me. Can you do that?”

I should have said no. I should have demanded answers, insisted on calling the police, done literally anything except what I did.

I nodded.

“Good.” He pressed his lips to my forehead, the kiss gentle and heartbreaking. “I’ll be back soon.”

Then he was gone, speeding off into the night, leaving me standing in front of a strange building in a dress I did not own, terrified and confused and absolutely certain that nothing in my life would ever be normal again.

The building King left me at turned out to be one of his properties, a luxury apartment complex with security that rivaled Fort Knox. A woman named Maria met me in the lobby, her expression kind but professional.

“Mr. Moretti called ahead,” she said. “You’ll be staying in the penthouse tonight. Everything you need is already there.”

She was not kidding.

The penthouse was stunning, all floor-to-ceiling windows and modern furniture. But what caught my attention was the bedroom, where a complete wardrobe had been laid out: pajamas, casual clothes, even toiletries that were exactly my brands.

He had done his research again.

I should have been creeped out. Instead, I found myself touching the soft fabric of the pajamas, thinking about how King had looked at me on that dance floor, how his hands had trembled slightly when he cupped my face, how his voice had cracked when he asked me to trust him.

I changed into the pajamas, made myself tea I did not drink, and tried not to check my phone every 30 seconds.

He did not call.

Two hours passed. Then 3.

I photographed the city lights from the windows, edited old photos, reorganized my camera bag twice. Anything to keep from thinking about what might be happening out there.

At 2:00 in the morning, I heard the lock click.

I grabbed the first weapon I could find, a table lamp, and positioned myself behind the door.

“April.” King’s voice was exhausted and rough. “It’s me. Don’t attack me with furniture.”

I lowered the lamp as he entered, and my breath caught.

He looked wrecked. His tuxedo jacket was gone. His shirt was untucked and bloodstained. His knuckles were raw and swollen.

“Oh my God,” I breathed. “What happened?”

“It’s not my blood.” He moved past me, heading straight for the bathroom. “Most of it, anyway.”

I followed, watching as he stripped off his shirt and turned on the sink. The muscles in his back were defined, perfect except for the fresh bruises already forming along his ribs.

“King.”

“I found them.” He scrubbed at his knuckles, the water running pink. “The men who broke into your apartment. I found them, and they won’t be breaking into anywhere else. Ever.”

The implication hung in the air.

I should have been horrified. I should have demanded details, called the police, done something. Instead, I grabbed a first-aid kit from under the sink.

“Sit,” I ordered.

“April—”

“Sit down. Now.”

Something in my tone made him comply. He sank onto the closed toilet seat, watching as I dampened a cloth and began cleaning the worst of the damage.

“This is going to sting,” I warned.

“I can handle it.”

He did not flinch as I worked. He did not make a sound, even when I knew it had to hurt. Up close, I could see more damage: a cut above his eyebrow, another along his jaw. His face was a battlefield.

“Why did they break in?” I asked quietly, dabbing antiseptic on his knuckles.

“They were looking for your camera.”

My hands stilled. “My camera? Why?”

“Because you photographed something you shouldn’t have at that club last week.”

I thought back, trying to remember what I had shot. Shadows. Lights. Anonymous figures in the darkness.

“I didn’t photograph anything specific. Just the space.”

“You photographed a man in the corner. Dark coat. Scar on his neck. Remember?”

I did remember. I had thought he looked interesting, compositionally speaking.

“Who was he?”

“Someone who doesn’t like being documented. Someone who thought you were working for a rival organization.”

“Working for—King, I’m a photography student.”

“They didn’t know that. All they knew was that you showed up at a club where he was conducting business, took his picture, and left with me.” His eyes met mine. “They thought you were my spy.”

The full weight of that crashed over me.

“So they came after me because of you.”

“Yes.”

“And you…”

“What?”

“Beat them up. Killed them.”

His silence was answer enough.

“Oh God.” I sank back against the sink, the first-aid supplies forgotten. “King, you can’t just… People can’t just…”

“In my world, they can.” His voice was flat. “Those men came to your apartment with the intention of hurting you, of making you tell them things you didn’t know. They would have tortured you, April. And when they realized you had nothing to give them, they would have killed you anyway. So, yes, I handled it. And I’d do it again.”

We stared at each other, the bathroom suddenly too small, too intimate. His chest was bare and marked with violence I did not want to examine too closely. My hands were shaking with adrenaline and fear and something else I could not name.

“You’re insane,” I whispered.

“Probably.”

“This world you live in, it’s actually insane.”

“I know.”

“I should run. I should pack up and leave Chicago and never look back.”

“Yes.” His eyes were dark and intense. “You absolutely should.”

“But I’m not going to.”

Something shifted in his expression. “Why not?”

“Because,” I said, stepping closer. “Because you just risked everything to keep me safe. Because you’re sitting here letting me clean your wounds like it’s normal. Because despite everything, despite all the danger and violence and absolute insanity, I trust you.”

“You shouldn’t.”

“I know.” I moved between his legs, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his skin. “But I do anyway.”

His hands came up, hovering near my waist, not quite touching.

“April, if I touch you right now, I’m not going to stop.”

“Good.” I leaned in, my lips inches from his. “I don’t want you to stop.”

For a long moment, we stayed there, breathing the same air, teetering on the edge of something we both knew was dangerous. His eyes dropped to my mouth. His pupils dilated. His control visibly frayed.

“This is a terrible idea,” he breathed.

“The worst,” I agreed.

“You’re going to get hurt.”

“Maybe. But not by you.”

That broke him.

His hands grabbed my waist, pulling me onto his lap as his mouth crashed against mine. The kiss was nothing like I had imagined. It was desperate and rough, tasting like blood and antiseptic and something darker, more primal. I kissed him back with equal intensity, my fingers threading through his hair, my body pressed against his bare chest. Every place we touched felt electric, charged with weeks of tension finally releasing.

He stood, lifting me with him, my legs wrapping around his waist. We made it as far as the bedroom doorway before he pressed me against the wall, his mouth moving to my neck.

“Tell me to stop,” he demanded against my skin. “Tell me this is crazy and we should think about it, and I’ll stop.”

“Don’t stop,” I gasped. “Don’t you dare stop.”

He carried me to the bed, laying me down with surprising gentleness given the violence of moments before. His body covered mine, his weight perfect and overwhelming.

Then his phone rang.

He ignored it.

It rang again.

And again.

“King,” I said breathlessly. “You should—”

“I don’t care.”

“It might be important.”

He dropped his forehead against mine, breathing hard. “I really hate my phone right now.”

Despite everything, I laughed.

He smiled against my lips, and for just a moment, we were simply 2 people tangled together, the outside world forgotten.

The phone rang a 4th time.

“Answer it,” I said softly. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He kissed me once more, hard and fast, then rolled away to grab his phone.

“This better be life or death,” he growled into it.

I watched his expression change as he listened, saw the softness disappear, replaced by cold calculation.

“I’ll be there in 20 minutes.”

He ended the call, already standing, already reaching for a clean shirt.

“I have to go.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Chen.”

“David Chen from the gala?”

“He’s made a move.”

“What kind of move?”

King pulled on his shirt, his movements sharp and precise. “The kind that requires an immediate response.”

He turned to face me, his expression conflicted.

“Stay here. Don’t leave this building. I mean it, April.”

“How long will you be gone?”

“I don’t know. Hours, maybe longer.” He moved back to the bed, cupping my face. “Promise me you’ll stay here.”

“I promise.”

He kissed me again, softer this time, almost tender.

“I’ll come back. I always come back.”

Then he was gone, leaving me alone in a borrowed penthouse, wearing borrowed pajamas, my lips still swollen from his kisses and my heart racing with fear for a man I barely knew but was definitely falling for.

I did not sleep. I could not. Instead, I paced the penthouse, took photos of the city at sunrise, and tried not to imagine all the horrible things that could be happening.

King finally returned at 8:00 in the morning, exhausted but uninjured.

“It’s handled,” was all he said.

“What’s handled?”

“Chen won’t be a problem anymore.”

“Did you…?”

“No.” He read my mind. “He’s alive. Just significantly less interested in whatever information he thought you had.”

I should have asked more questions. I should have demanded details. Instead, I pulled him into a hug, pressing my face against his chest.

“I was worried,” I admitted.

His arms came around me, holding tight. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. Just don’t die.”

“I’ll try my best.”

We stood there for a long moment, neither of us wanting to move. Finally, he pulled back, his hand tracing my jaw.

“I need to tell you something,” he said quietly.

“Okay.”

“The reason David Chen thought you had information. The reason those men broke into your apartment. It’s because I’ve been careless. I’ve been seen with you too many times. People are starting to think you’re important to me.”

“Am I?” The question escaped before I could stop it. “Important to you?”

His eyes met mine, vulnerable in a way I had never seen. “Yes. Which is exactly the problem.”

“Why is that a problem?”

“Because being important to me makes you a target. Every rival I have, every enemy, every person who wants to hurt me will see you as the way to do it.”

“So what are you saying?”

“I’m saying…” He took a breath. “I’m saying you should probably keep your distance for your own safety.”

I stepped back, processing that. “You want me to stay away from you?”

“I want you to be safe.”

“Those aren’t always the same thing.”

“What if I told you I feel safer with you than without you?”

“Then I’d say you’re insane.”

“You’ve mentioned.”

Despite himself, he smiled.

“April—”

“No.” I cut him off. “You don’t get to kiss me like that and then tell me to stay away. You don’t get to protect me and save me and make me feel things I’ve never felt, and then just walk away. That’s not how this works.”

“That’s exactly how this has to work.”

“Why? Because you’re afraid? Because you think I can’t handle your world?”

“Because I care about you.” The words exploded out of him. “Because for the first time in years, I actually care about something other than survival and control. And that terrifies me more than any enemy I’ve ever faced.”

We stared at each other, the truth finally laid bare between us.

“I’m falling in love with you,” I said quietly. “I don’t want to be. It’s stupid and dangerous and completely insane, but I am anyway.”

His expression cracked, showing the person underneath the control.

“April—”

“So you can either accept that and figure out how we make this work, or you can walk away. But you don’t get to make that choice for me. I’m choosing you, King. Despite everything, I’m choosing you.”

For a long moment, he just looked at me. Then he closed the distance between us and kissed me with a desperation that made my knees weak.

“You’re going to be the death of me,” he murmured against my lips.

“Probably,” I agreed. “But what a way to go.”

Life with King was nothing like I had imagined. It turned out that dating a crime lord involved a lot of boring logistics: security protocols, safe houses, encrypted phones, and an endless stream of rules about where I could go and when.

I hated about 60% of it.

The other 40% involved King showing up at my apartment at midnight with takeout, falling asleep on my couch while I edited photos, and having conversations about everything except his work.

We developed a routine. He never talked about what he did. I never asked directly. And in that space between, we built something that almost felt normal.

Almost.

Part 3

Two months after that night in the penthouse, I was in my darkroom when I heard someone at my door.

Not a knock.

The distinct sound of a lock being picked.

I grabbed my phone and texted King the way I had been trained. Then I grabbed the nearest weapon, a metal tripod, and waited.

The door opened. A man entered, gun out, eyes scanning the room. He did not see me until the tripod connected with the side of his head.

He went down hard.

I was already running, hitting the panic button by the door that would alert King’s security team. I made it halfway down the hallway before someone grabbed me from behind.

“Stop fighting,” a voice hissed in my ear. “We just want to talk.”

“Funny way of talking,” I gasped, elbowing backward.

He grunted but held firm.

“Your boyfriend has something that belongs to my boss. We need to know where it is.”

“I don’t know anything about King’s business.”

“That’s what they all say.”

He was dragging me toward the stairs when I heard footsteps pounding up from below. Three of King’s men appeared, guns drawn, faces grim.

“Let her go,” the lead one said. “Now.”

My captor hesitated, clearly weighing his options. Then he released me.

“Hands up.”

“Tell Moretti this isn’t over,” he said. “Tell him Valentino wants what’s his.”

They took him away. I sank against the wall, shaking with adrenaline.

My phone rang immediately.

“April.” King’s voice was tight with controlled panic. “Are you hurt?”

“No. Your guys got here in time. But King, they said something about Valentino.”

Silence, long and heavy.

“Stay there. I’m coming.”

He arrived 15 minutes later, bursting through my door like an avenging angel. His hands were on me immediately, checking for injuries, his eyes scanning every inch.

“I’m fine,” I insisted. “Really. Just shaken up.”

“They got near your apartment.” His voice was deadly calm. “Past my security. Into your home.”

“But they didn’t hurt me.”

“They could have.” His hands were shaking. Actually shaking. “April. They could have.”

I grabbed his face, forcing him to look at me.

“But they didn’t. I’m okay. See? Completely okay.”

He pulled me into a crushing hug, his face buried in my neck.

“This can’t keep happening.”

“So fix it. Do whatever you need to do to make it stop.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Isn’t it? They said Valentino wants something. Give it to him.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

He pulled back, his expression conflicted. “Because what he wants is information about my operation. Give him that, and I’m dead within a week.”

“Then don’t give him the information. Give him something else.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know how your world works.” Frustration bled into my voice. “But there has to be a solution that doesn’t involve me getting grabbed in my own hallway.”

“There is.” His jaw was set, determined. “You move in with me.”

I blinked. “What?”

“The penthouse. Full security. No one gets in without clearance. You’d be safe.”

“King, I can’t just move in with you.”

“Why not?”

“Because that’s insane. We’ve been together 2 months.”

“And in those 2 months, you’ve been attacked twice.” His voice hardened. “I’m not asking, April. I’m telling you. You’re moving into the penthouse.”

“You don’t get to tell me what to do.”

“When it comes to your safety, yes, I absolutely do.”

We glared at each other, locked in another battle of wills. I hated that he was right. I hated that my independence was being stripped away by circumstances beyond my control. I hated that some part of me actually wanted to say yes, wanted to be close to him even if it meant giving up my freedom.

“Fine,” I said finally. “But I’m bringing all my stuff, and I get my own space for my darkroom, and you don’t get to complain about my weird hours or my music or the fact that I eat cereal for dinner sometimes.”

Relief flooded his face. “Deal.”

“And King?”

“Yes?”

“We’re going to talk about this Valentino situation. Really talk about it. Because I’m tired of being a target for something I don’t understand.”

He nodded. “Okay. But not tonight. Tonight you pack what you need, and we get you somewhere safe. Tomorrow, we’ll talk.”

Tomorrow came, and with it, the truth.

We sat in King’s home office—now our office, I supposed—while he explained. Valentino was an old rival, someone who had been trying to expand into King’s territory for years. The information he wanted involved shipping routes and contact names, the kind of intelligence that would give him everything he needed to dismantle King’s operation from the inside.

“So what do we do?” I asked.

“We give him something else. Something that looks real enough to buy us time.”

“And then?”

“Then we eliminate the threat permanently.”

The way he said it made my stomach turn.

“Eliminate? King, you mean kill him?”

“I mean make sure he can never come after you again.”

I stood and paced to the windows. Outside, Chicago glittered in the afternoon sun. Beautiful and dangerous and full of secrets.

“There has to be another way.”

“There isn’t.”

“King—”

“This is my world.” He came up behind me, his hands settling on my shoulders. “This is how things work. I won’t apologize for protecting what’s mine.”

“I’m not yours to protect.”

“Yes, you are.” His voice was firm. “You became mine the moment you chose to stay. And I will do whatever it takes to keep you safe, even if you hate me for it.”

I turned to face him.

“I could never hate you.”

“Even knowing what I am? What I do?”

“You’re more than what you do. You’re the man who remembered I like white roses. Who shows up when I text at 2:00 a.m. because I can’t sleep. Who looks at me like I’m the only real thing in your world.” I touched his face. “That’s who you are to me.”

He closed his eyes, leaning into my touch.

“I don’t deserve you.”

“Probably not. But you’re stuck with me anyway.”

We stayed like that for a long moment, drawing strength from each other.

Then his phone buzzed.

He glanced at it and frowned.

“What?” I asked.

“Valentino wants a meeting tonight to discuss terms.”

“Are you going?”

“I have to.”

Fear spiked through me. “Let me come with you.”

“Absolutely not.”

“King.”

“April. No. This is non-negotiable. You stay here where it’s safe.”

“And what if something happens to you?”

“Then Marcus knows what to do. You’ll be taken care of.”

“I don’t want to be taken care of. I want you alive.”

He pulled me close and kissed my forehead.

“I’ll be fine. Valentino wants to talk, not fight. It’ll be a negotiation. Nothing more.”

“Promise me.”

“I promise.”

He was gone by 8:00, leaving me alone in the massive penthouse with 2 security guards outside and instructions not to leave for any reason.

I tried to work on editing photos, but I could not concentrate. I tried to read, but the words blurred together. I tried to do anything except imagine all the ways the night could go wrong.

At midnight, my phone rang.

Unknown number.

“Hello?”

“April Carter.” A man’s voice, smooth and dangerous.

“Who is this?”

“Someone with information you need. King walked into a trap. He’s at the Riverside Warehouse. Valentino’s men have him.”

My blood ran cold. “How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

“You don’t. But if you want him alive, you’ll come now. Alone.”

The line went dead.

I stood frozen, mind racing. This could be a trap. It probably was a trap. But what if it was not? What if King really was in danger and this was my only chance to help?

I grabbed my camera bag, old habit, and headed for the door.

The security guards tried to stop me. I told them it was an emergency, that Caroline had called, that I needed to go immediately. They wavered.

I used that moment to slip past them and into the elevator.

Getting a cab at midnight while wearing all black probably made me look suspicious, but the driver did not ask questions. The warehouse was on the outskirts of the city, in an industrial area that looked abandoned. The cab dropped me at the corner. I paid, waited until he drove away, then approached the warehouse on foot.

The front door was unlocked.

Inside, the space was cavernous and dark, lit only by moonlight filtering through broken windows. I could hear voices deeper in, echoing off the walls. I moved closer, staying in the shadows, my camera clutched like a talisman.

Through a doorway, I could see them.

King was tied to a chair. His face was bloodied, but his eyes were alert. Valentino stood in front of him, flanked by 4 men with guns. They were talking, but I was too far away to hear.

I should have called the police. I should have called King’s men. I should have done literally anything except what I did.

I raised my camera and started documenting.

Flash off. Silent shutter.

I captured everything. Valentino’s face. His men. The weapons. The evidence that would put them away for years, if it ever made it to the right people.

I was so focused on shooting that I did not hear the footsteps behind me until it was too late.

“Found a little spy,” someone said, grabbing my arm.

They dragged me into the main room. King’s eyes went wide with horror when he saw me.

“April,” he breathed. “No. What are you—”

“She came to save you,” Valentino interrupted, amused. “How touching. The photographer and the crime lord. It’s almost romantic.”

“Let her go,” King demanded. “This is between us.”

“But she’s part of it now. She’s seen too much. Shot too much, from what my man tells me.”

Valentino gestured, and someone ripped the camera from my hands.

“Don’t,” I started, but it was too late. They were already scrolling through the photos, seeing everything I had captured.

“Interesting,” Valentino mused. “Very interesting. These might actually be worth something to the police. Or to your rivals, King. I wonder what they’d pay for evidence of your activities.”

“Those photos don’t show anything about me,” King said, his voice deadly calm. “Just you, your men, your weapons. If anything, she just documented evidence against you.”

Valentino’s expression darkened.

“Then perhaps neither of you leaves here tonight.”

The temperature in the room dropped. I felt the man holding me tense, his grip tightening.

King’s eyes met mine across the space, and I saw fear there. Real fear. Not for himself, but for me.

“Take me,” King said. “Kill me if that’s what you want. But let her go. She’s not part of this world.”

“She’s innocent, is she?” Valentino moved closer to me, studying my face. “The girlfriend of Chicago’s most dangerous man. I don’t think innocence applies anymore.”

What happened next occurred in seconds but felt like hours.

The warehouse doors burst open. King’s men flooded in, weapons drawn, shouting commands. Valentino’s men returned fire. I was shoved to the ground, concrete scraping my palms, my camera skittering away.

Through the chaos, I saw King somehow free himself from the ropes. His hands were a blur of violence as he took down the nearest guard. I saw him fight his way toward me, every movement precise and brutal.

Then I saw Valentino raise his gun, aiming at King’s back.

I did not think. I reacted.

I grabbed my camera—heavy, metal, expensive—and threw it with all my strength.

It hit Valentino’s arm just as he fired. The shot went wide, embedding in the wall instead of King’s spine.

King spun, saw what I had done, and his expression shifted to pure fury. Not at Valentino, but at me for putting myself in danger.

He finished it in seconds, disarming Valentino and getting him on the ground, surrounded by King’s men, who had taken control of the situation with terrifying efficiency.

Then King was pulling me up, his hands everywhere, checking for injuries.

“Are you insane?” he demanded. “Coming here alone? You could have been killed.”

“You were going to die.”

“So you thought you’d die too? Is that the plan?”

“My plan was to save you.”

“By getting yourself shot?”

“I threw my camera. My very expensive camera that I loved. So you’re welcome.”

We were shouting at each other in the middle of a warehouse full of armed men, criminal evidence, and literal blood on the floor. It should have been terrible. Terrifying.

Instead, King grabbed my face and kissed me hard, desperate, as though he needed to confirm I was real and alive and actually there.

“Don’t ever do that again,” he said against my lips.

“Do what? Save your life?”

“Risk yours for mine.”

“Too late. Already did it. Would do it again.”

He pulled back, studying my face.

“You’re insane.”

“You’ve mentioned.”

Despite everything, he smiled.

“I love you.”

The words hung in the air between us. The first time either of us had said them out loud. Around us, King’s men were securing Valentino and his crew. Sirens wailed in the distance.

“I love you too,” I said. “Even though you’re a controlling, overprotective criminal mastermind who thinks he knows what’s best for everyone.”

“And you’re a reckless, stubborn, impossibly brave woman who throws expensive cameras at armed criminals.”

“We’re quite a pair.”

“The worst.”

“Absolutely terrible.”

He kissed me again, softer this time. When he pulled back, his eyes were serious.

“This isn’t over. Valentino has connections. There will be retaliation.”

“I know.”

“You could still leave. Go back to Detroit. Be safe.”

“I could,” I agreed. “But I won’t. Because I’m choosing you, King. I chose you that first night at the club. I chose you when I moved into the penthouse. I’m choosing you now. So unless you’re choosing differently—”

“Never.” The word was absolute. “I’m never letting you go.”

“Good. Because I’m never leaving.”

We stayed like that for a moment, surrounded by chaos but finding peace in each other.

Then Marcus arrived, taking control of the scene with the kind of efficiency that spoke to years of practice.

“You 2 should go,” he said. “Before the police get here.”

“I’ll handle this, Dad,” King started.

“Go take April home. Let me clean up your mess.”

King nodded, then laced his fingers through mine.

“Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

We made it halfway to the door before I stopped.

“Wait. My camera.”

It was lying near where I had thrown it. The lens was cracked, the body dented, probably ruined. I picked it up anyway, cradling it like an injured pet.

“I’ll buy you a new one,” King said.

“It’s not about the camera.” I looked up at him. “It’s about what it represents. I came to Chicago with that camera, thinking I’d document beauty. Instead, I documented violence and danger. And…” I paused. “And you. I documented you.”

“I hate being photographed.”

“I know. But I have hundreds of shots of you anyway. You pretending not to notice. You almost smiling. You looking at me like I’m the only thing in your world that matters.”

His expression softened. “Because you are.”

“See, that’s the stuff I photograph. The truth underneath the control.”

He took the broken camera from my hands, set it carefully aside, and pulled me close.

“You’re impossible,” he murmured into my hair.

“You’ve mentioned.”

“And I love you anyway.”

“Good. Because you’re stuck with me now.”

We left the warehouse hand in hand, stepping out into a Chicago dawn that painted everything gold and pink. Behind us, the mess was being cleaned up, evidence disappearing, witnesses being managed. The world King lived in was taking care of itself the way it always did.

But in front of us was something different, something neither of us had expected to find. A future built not on violence or fear or control, but on choice, on trust, on 2 impossible people finding each other against all odds and deciding to stay.

“So what now?” I asked when we reached his car.

“Now”—he smiled, the real smile I had only seen a handful of times—“we go home. We sleep for about 12 hours. Then we figure out how to live a life where you’re a photographer and I’m a criminal. And somehow, we make that work.”

“Sounds complicated.”

“Everything about us is complicated.”

“True.” I kissed him quickly. “But what’s life without a little danger?”

“Says the woman who just threw a camera at a mob boss.”

“Technically, you’re also a mob boss, so it’s very on brand for me.”

He laughed, the sound genuine and free. “Get in the car, trouble.”

“Is that my nickname now?”

“Trouble among others.”

“Care to share?”

“Not until we’re safely home and you can’t throw anything else at me.”

I slid into the passenger seat, watching as he rounded the car to the driver’s side. The sun was fully up now, Chicago waking around us, completely unaware that somewhere in a warehouse, a crime lord and a photographer had just saved each other’s lives.

As we drove through the city streets, King’s hand found mine, lacing our fingers together.

“No regrets?” he asked.

I thought about everything that had led to this moment: running from Derek, meeting King, the roses, the gala, the attacks, the fear and danger and absolute insanity of falling in love with someone from a world I did not understand.

“Not one,” I said honestly. “Only that I didn’t find you sooner.”

We drove home in comfortable silence, 2 people who had played with danger and paid the price. My broken camera. His bruised knuckles. The enemies we had made. The normal life we would never have.

But we had also won something more valuable than safety.

We had won each other.

And in the end, that was worth every risk, every danger, every impossible choice that had led us here.

King parked in the underground garage of his building—our building. As we rode the elevator up to the penthouse, I leaned against him, exhausted and wired and more alive than I had ever felt.

“I’m going to sleep for a week,” I mumbled.

“Good. I’ll join you.”

“And then?”

“Then we live. We take photos and conduct business and find ways to make this insanity work. Together. Always together.”

The elevator doors opened onto the penthouse.

Home.

For the first time since leaving Detroit, I felt as if I had found where I belonged. Not in a city, not in a building, but with a person. This impossible, dangerous, beautiful person who had claimed me from the moment we met and never let go.

I collapsed onto the bed, still wearing my dirty clothes from the warehouse. King joined me, pulling me close, his chin resting on top of my head.

“April,” he murmured, already half asleep.

“Yeah?”

“Don’t ever change.”

“Even though I’m trouble?”

“Especially because you’re trouble.”

I smiled and closed my eyes.

Outside, Chicago hummed with life. Inside, in that moment, we were safe. Together. Home.

Two people who had played with danger and survived. Two people who had paid the price and decided it was worth it. Two people who had found each other in the darkness and chosen to stay.

And maybe, just maybe, that was the happiest ending we could have hoped for.