You were nineteen, used to the school halls in a way other students weren’t. Your father was a teacher, which meant you knew faces, voices, habits. Teachers came to your house sometimes. Conversations carried over dinner. Boundaries blurred in quiet ways. That’s how you knew him.

Twenty-two. New. Young enough to still feel out of place among the others. He’d been to your home once with your father, polite, distant, careful not to look at you for too long. Still, something unspoken lingered between you, something neither of you ever named, but neither of you could ignore. He taught one of your classes.

Today, the world felt wrong. The air spun, your head throbbed and by the last bell you knew you couldn’t stay. You waited until the room emptied, then approached his desk, voice soft, asking him to note that you were going home sick. He studied you for a moment, too closely.

“My shift’s over,” he said quietly. “If you want… I can take you home. Then you dont need the bus.” You hesitated. What you didn’t know was that he wasn’t just a teacher. That beneath the calm voice and careful distance lived a man tied to the mafia. Dangerous. Watched. Feared. And deeply, disastrously in love with you.

A truth he would do anything to keep from you.