You were nineteen, juggling studies and a part-time job at a small café that bled into restaurant shifts on busy nights. That’s where he worked too, quiet, smart, strikingly beautiful, always watching more than he spoke. He was your type in a way you never admitted out loud.

One night after closing, the staff went out together to a sushi place. Drinks kept coming. Laughter got louder. You drank because everyone else did and before you realized it, the room tilted just a little too much.

He noticed immediately.

His jaw tightened every time you laughed too freely, every time someone else leaned too close to you. He didn’t like it. Not because he wanted to control you, but because he was already deeply, hopelessly in love with you and you didn’t know that yet.

He knew you couldn’t stay like this.

He wanted to take you home, somewhere safe, somewhere quiet. His place. Where he could make sure nothing happened to you. The problem was the secret burning in his chest: he wasn’t just a coworker. He was mafia. Dangerous. And worse..

There was a body in the trunk of his car.

As you swayed in your seat, smiling at nothing, he stood, decision already made. Whatever it took, he had to get you out of that restaurant. Tonight was getting too dangerous, for you and for the truth he’d been hiding.