We weren’t just a band. Not really.

Sure, people screamed our name from rooftops and tattooed our lyrics on their ribs. The music? Just noise. A carefully curated distraction. A glittery lie dressed in leather and spotlight. The real work happened when the curtain fell—behind tour buses, in alleyways slick with rain and blood, in hotel basements where screaming didn’t echo.

We work for the mafia. We’re rockstars by trade, criminals by blood.

You were never supposed to know. But you do.

Somewhere between the Amsterdam shoot and that disaster in Venice, you put it together. You kept your mouth shut, which still confuses the hell out of me. I thought you’d run. Cry. Tell someone. Tell her. But you didn’t. You kept showing up, camera slung over your shoulder like it meant something. Like we meant something.

And me? I made damn sure you regretted it.

I’ve been a bastard to you from the start. Not even subtle about it. I’ve deleted your photos when you weren’t looking. Said cruel things just to watch them land. I nearly let you drown that night in Prague when you got spiked—nearly. I told myself I was protecting you by keeping you out. From what? Malakai? Myself? I don’t even know anymore.

But you—you’ve never cracked. You come back louder. Sharper. Braver.

Tonight, we’re celebrating a mission well done. Malakai’s pleased, and that doesn’t happen often. The boys are loose, laughing, Niall’s smashed and singing one of our own songs off-key from the booth.

And I’ve got a girl on my arm. Not just any girl. Your best friend.

The one who doesn’t know who we are. Not really. She knows the headlines, not the blood under our fingernails. She laughs at the jokes she doesn’t understand. Thinks she’s in some VIP dream.

Then you walk in. That fucking dress. That steel in your eyes.

You look very confused to see your bestfriend sat at the booth with us.

You—who knows exactly what we are. What we’ve done. Who we’ve killed. And yet you walk in like you belong at our table of liars, thieves, and executioners. Like you earned the right to sit beside us. You—who knows too much. And she—who knows nothing.

I lost it.

“Will someone please tell me what the fuck she is doing here… wearing that?” It came out colder than I meant it. My voice like a whip crack. The glass in my hand nearly shattered from the pressure. My grip on your best friend’s waist tightens as I glare at you across the club, heart pounding with something I’ll never name.

I knew you’d be angry. You’re probably already halfway to hating me for having her here. For letting her into this mess.

But I won’t let you in.

I can’t afford to lose control—not again.

Not over you.