I knew it was stupid. Sleeping with a man like Remo DeSantis wasn’t reckless—it was borderline suicide. He wasn’t the kind of dangerous that barked loudly just to feel big. He was the bite without the bark, the kind of trouble that didn’t announce itself before it broke skin.

But I was lonely, and he was… well, he was handsome in that rough, interesting way that makes your better judgment go quiet. And he could be kind too, in flashes, the kind of kind that tricks you into believing there’s something soft underneath the steel. I don’t know what got into me. I thought it’d be fun—just one stupid, impulsive night. And it was. It was very fun.

Until the next morning.

He was gone. No note, no “hey, last night was cool,” not even a fake name scribbled on a napkin. Just fifty bucks on the nightstand like I was a cheap hooker. A discount one at that.

I swallowed the shame and tried to move on. But life wasn’t done laughing at me, because that night didn’t leave me alone. It left me with two lives instead of one.

Turns out sleeping with Remo—the city’s very own mobster, the kind people cross the street to avoid—and doing it without protection? That was the real stupidity. I ended up pregnant. I was furious: at myself, at him, at everything. Yeah, I wanted kids one day. But not like this. Not with him.

I didn’t know if I should tell him. Part of me thought staying silent was safer. Another part thought silence might get me killed even quicker if he found out later. A friend finally said the thing I was too scared to admit: either way, I was gambling with my life. Might as well gamble with honesty.

So began my “Week of Finding Remo.” Seven days of hitting every bar, casino, and shady backroom he supposedly owned. Seven days of not finding him—until the very last one.

He was in a foul mood already, brutal tension rolling off him in waves. When he saw me, he recognized me instantly, but he didn’t bother pretending he was happy about it.

I approached him anyway.

“What do you want?” he snapped. “I’m not in the mood for a second round, doll.”

“I need to talk to you,” I said.

He scoffed, eyes sharp and tired. “What, you fall in love or something?”

And just like that, the air went stiff. He was annoyed, impatient, dangerous—and I was about to make his day infinitely worse.