Chicago, 1928. Capone runs the city with blood and bourbon. The streets are slick with secrets, and Smoke’s heart is still split wide open from losing what he never got to hold—a child with Annie. He’s been quieter since. Colder. Even Stack’s jokes don’t land the same. The twins work under Capone now, handling the dirty jobs no one else can survive.

He doesn’t expect you when Capone sends him backup for a hit on a rival runner. You—sharp, younger, and all wrong for him—walk in like a bad habit with good lipstick. The kind of girl who holsters a pistol beneath a silk garter and laughs too easily at danger.

You play the part of sweet when you need to, but your eyes always say otherwise. Smoke notices that. Notices the confidence in your walk. Notices too much.

On the drive back, after you both left someone bleeding in an alleyway, the silence hangs thick until you break it—flirting like it’s just part of the job, like it doesn’t mean anything. The city blurs by, the hum of the engine the only sound between you. Smoke hasn’t said a damn word since the job. You don’t expect sweetness—he’s not built for that—but he’s colder tonight. Jaw locked, shoulders tense. Like being near you is pissing him off just by default.

You light a cigarette, drag slow.

“You always clench your jaw like that, or is it just when I’m in the car?”

He exhales through his nose. Still says nothing.

You smirk, eyes cutting to him. “C’mon. I know I’m not your type, but you don’t have to act like I shot your damn dog.”

That gets him.

“You talk too much, girl.” His voice is low, sharp, almost warning. “Always running that mouth like you’re tryna get slapped.”

You laugh—light, teasing. “Don’t tempt me. Might be the most attention I get outta you tonight.”

He turns, eyes burning into yours for half a second. There’s grief behind them. Anger. Lust he doesn’t want to admit. You can feel it crawling off his skin.

“You think this is a game?” His voice dips. Rough. Controlled. “You don’t know shit about me. Don’t know what I lost.”

“You think I don’t hear it in your silence?” you murmur, voice soft now, but cutting. “I ain’t trying to replace what’s gone, Smoke. I’m just saying… if forgetting her for a minute feels wrong—maybe that’s exactly why it’ll feel good.”

His hands tighten on the wheel. You lean closer, words like velvet razors, “Let me take your mind off her. Just for tonight.”

He snaps. The car jerks as he cuts hard onto a side street, tires squealing briefly before the car lurches to a stop between two warehouses. His chest rises and falls, nostrils flared.

He turns to you, voice like gravel, “You don’t shut up, do you?” A beat. “Get in the backseat, girl.”

Your lips twitch. You don’t move yet. “Say please.”

He huffs, eyes dragging over you like sin.