Ezra's POV
Freedom tastes like autumn air and coffee.
Two weeks of living in Marco's penthouse, and this is the first time he's let me leave alone. Just two hours to grab research notes from Northwestern's library. Two hours of being Ezra Chen, graduate student, instead of Ezra Chen, fake mafia boyfriend.
I practically run across campus, savoring every second of normalcy.
The library smells like old books and possibilities—everything my life used to be before the warehouse. I find my research materials in my old study carrel, untouched like I never disappeared. For a moment, I let myself pretend the past two weeks were a nightmare.
Then I step outside, and a woman in a dark suit blocks my path.
Ezra Chen? She's maybe forty, with sharp eyes and a harder smile. We need to talk about the murder you witnessed.
My blood turns to ice. I don't know what you're talking about.
She pulls out a badge, FBI. Agent Victoria Ross.
The warehouse on North Patterson. Two weeks ago. Marco Vitale executed a man named Tony Giordano. You were there. You saw everything. Her voice is calm, factual, terrifying. And now you're living with the killer. Playing his boyfriend. Trapped in a very dangerous situation.
I back up a step. I have to go.
Walk away, and you're an accessory to murder. She moves closer, voice dropping. But help us, and we can protect you. Your choice, Ezra. Make it fast.
My hands shake. How does she know? How does the FBI know about the warehouse, about Marco, about everything?
I can't talk to you. If Marco finds out
He'll kill you? Victoria finishes. Exactly. That's why you need our help. She gestures to a black sedan parked nearby. Ten minutes. Just hear what we have to say. If you don't want our help after that, you walk away. But this is your only chance at survival.
I should run. Should call Marco. Should do anything except get in that car.
But the memory of Tony's body hitting the floor, of the gun at my temple, of Giovanni's cold threat, it all crashes over me at once.
I get in the car.
The FBI safehouse is a bland apartment in a building that looks like every other building in Chicago. Victoria leads me inside where another agent waits—older, male, silent.
Sit, Victoria says, and I do because my legs won't hold me anymore.
She places a folder on the table. Opens it. Crime scene photos spill out—the warehouse, Tony's body, blood pooling black on concrete.
We've been investigating the Vitale family for three years, she says. We know about their drug operations, their money laundering, their contract killings. We know Marco Vitale is his father's enforcer. We know he's killed at least seven people in the past two years alone.
Seven people. Seven lives Marco ended as casually as turning off a light.
We also know, Victoria continues, that you witnessed Tony Giordano's execution. That Marco claimed you as his lover to save your life. That you're now trapped in his penthouse, playing a role you never asked for.
How do you know all this? My voice comes out hoarse.
We have informants inside the organization. Eyes everywhere. She leans forward. And we know you're terrified. We know you want out. We can give you that.
How?
Victoria pulls out another folder. You wear a wire. Record Marco's conversations. Document his crimes. When we have enough evidence, we arrest the entire Vitale family and put you in witness protection. New identity, new city, full immunity for anything you've done under duress.
You want me to spy on Marco.
We want you to help us stop a murderer. Her eyes hold mine. Ezra, I've seen what these families do to people. I've identified bodies, notified families, watched organized crime destroy lives. Marco Vitale is a monster. He's manipulating you, making you think he cares so you'll be easier to control. It's textbook predator behavior.
I think about Marco's hands on my face, his gentle voice, the way he protected me from his father.
I also think about the gun in his hand, the blood on his collar, the cold efficiency of murder.
What if he finds out? I whisper.
He won't. The wire is completely undetectable. Victoria pulls out a watch—expensive, elegant, identical to the one Marco gave me last week. It's built into the mechanism. Just swap them out. He'll never know the difference.
And if something goes wrong?
We'll be listening 24/7. Any sign of danger, we extract you immediately. She pushes the watch across the table. You're a victim in this, Ezra. Let us help you.
I stare at the watch. At this small device that could either save me or get me killed.
He saved my life, I hear myself say. In the warehouse, he could have killed me. But he didn't.
He saved his asset, Victoria corrects. You're useful to him. Maybe as cover, maybe as leverage. But the second you stop being useful? You're dead. Just like Tony. Just like all the others.
The truth of her words cuts deep because part of me knows she's right. Marco is a killer. This relationship is fake. I'm only alive because I serve a purpose.
But another part of me remembers the way Marco's hands shook after meeting his father. The sadness in his eyes when he said he was still figuring out what I mean to him. The careful distance he maintains even though we sleep under the same roof.
I need time to think, I say.
You don't have time. Giovanni Vitale gave you three months to prove your relationship is real. That's eleven weeks from now. We need evidence before then, or you'll both be dead and we'll have nothing. Victoria's voice softens. I know this is hard. I know you're scared. But this is your only way out.
I close my eyes. See Tony's body. See the gun at my temple. See Giovanni's cold smile promising death.
See Marco's face when he said I did well, like my survival mattered to him.
Okay, I whisper. I'll do it.
Victoria's smile is triumphant. Smart choice.
She hands me the watch, and I hold it like it might explode. It looks exactly like Marco's gift—same weight, same style, same everything. He'll never notice the difference.
Just wear it, Victoria instructs. The audio quality is excellent. It'll pick up everything within twenty feet. Record conversations, business meetings, anything incriminating. We'll monitor remotely and download the recordings when we meet.
How often do we meet?
Once a week. Same time, same place. You tell your boyfriend you're going to the library for research. Her eyes narrow. And Ezra? Don't get attached. Don't let him manipulate you into thinking this is anything other than survival. Marco Vitale is a murderer. Remember that.
I nod because what else can I do?
The other agent drives me back to campus. I walk to Marco's building in a daze, the wire-watch heavy on my wrist.
I'm betraying the man who saved my life.
But he's also the man who killed Tony without hesitation.
Which truth matters more?
I slip into the penthouse using my new key. Marco sits on the couch, laptop open, working on something that's probably illegal. He looks up when I enter, and his whole face softens.
How was the library? He closes the laptop immediately, giving me his full attention.
Good. Got my notes. I hold up the folder as proof, hyper-aware of the watch recording every word.
Marco stands, walking over to me. I was worried. You were gone longer than two hours.
Sorry. Ran into an old classmate. We talked. The lie comes easier than it should.
He studies my face, and for a terrifying moment I think he knows. Thinks he can see the betrayal written across my features.
Then he smiles. It's fine. I'm glad you got some normalcy. His hand touches my shoulder. Hungry? I ordered Thai food.
Starving.
We eat together on the couch, Marco asking about my research, me answering on autopilot. The watch records everything—mundane conversations about grad school and food preferences. Nothing criminal. Nothing useful.
Victoria's voice echoes in my head: Get him to confess to crimes.
Can I ask you something? I say carefully.
Sure.
That night in the warehouse. The man you... I can't say 'killed.' Why did you have to do that?
Marco's expression shutters. That's not dinner conversation.
I just want to understand your world. If we're going to make this work, I need to know who you really are.
He's quiet for a long moment, and I think he'll refuse. Then he sets down his food and turns to face me.
Tony betrayed the family. Gave information to our rivals. In my world, betrayal means death. No exceptions. His voice is matter-of-fact. I was following orders.
Your father's orders?
Yes.
Do you always follow his orders? Even when they're... I search for the right word. Wrong?
Marco's laugh is bitter. Right and wrong don't exist in my world, Ezra. There's only loyalty and betrayal. Strength and weakness. Survival and death.
That's a sad way to live.
It's the only way I know. His hand finds mine, thumb tracing my knuckles. But lately, with you, I've been wondering if there could be something different. Something better.
The watch records every word. Victoria will hear this—will think Marco is manipulating me, making me sympathize with him.
But his eyes hold genuine pain. Genuine hope.
What would 'better' look like? I ask quietly.
I don't know yet. Maybe
His phone rings. The special ringtone that means Dante.
Marco answers immediately. What?
I watch his face go pale as he listens.
When? A pause. How many? Another pause. I'll be there in ten minutes.
He hangs up, already moving toward the door.
What's wrong? I ask.
Stay here. Lock the door. Don't open it for anyone except me or Dante. He grabs his jacket, and I see him check the gun hidden inside. I'll explain later.
Marc
He stops at the door, turns back. For a moment, his mask cracks and I see real fear.
Someone's been asking questions about you. About us. Digging into your background, your friends, looking for proof we're lying. His jaw clenches. And they just showed up at a coffee shop where you used to study. Looking for people who knew you before me.
My heart stops. Who?
We don't know yet. But whoever it is, they're moving fast. And if they find someone who'll testify you and I never met before the warehouse... He doesn't finish.
The wire is recording this. Recording Marco's fear, his concern, his desperation to protect our cover story.
Recording evidence that we're lying.
What do we do? I whisper.
Marco walks back to me, cups my face with both hands.
We hope Dante gets to them first. His eyes are dark with something that might be fear or might be fury. And we pray they don't find what they're looking for.
He kisses my forehead—quick, gentle, terrified—and then he's gone.
I stand alone in the penthouse, the wire recording my racing heartbeat, and realize what I've done.
Someone is investigating us.
The FBI swears it's not them.
Which means someone else knows our secret.
And they're hunting for proof that will get us both killed.