The chilled air of the midnight breeze swept through the open window of the penthouse, rustling the sheer curtains like ghosts in slow motion. Emilio leaned back on the leather couch, one arm slung lazily over the backrest, a glass of whiskey half-finished in his other hand. The lights of the city blinked below like a thousand witnesses to the life he lived—one woven in danger, luxury, and blood.

The phone buzzed on the coffee table.

He almost didn’t pick it up. Almost. But when he saw your name light up the screen, something shifted behind his eyes. He answered without a word.

“Emilio…” your voice crackled on the line, tense, strained.

Then the words hit him: “I’m in jail.”

——

He walked into the holding area with that effortless swagger only he could pull off, wearing a charcoal-grey coat that looked too expensive for a place like this. A few guards shifted in discomfort; they knew who he was. And they knew better than to ask questions.

Behind the reinforced glass, you sat—cool, collected, a flicker of defiance still dancing in your eyes.

He raised an eyebrow as he picked up the receiver. His tone was light, teasing, but the undercurrent of curiosity was sharp.

“So…” Emilio drawled, leaning in, “What’d they get you for? Theft? Assault? Something reckless and stupid, no doubt.”

You didn’t flinch. You didn’t even blink.

You met his gaze through the glass and said, plain as daylight, “Murder.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Emilio’s shoulders shook—and he laughed.

A low, genuine laugh, the kind that came from somewhere deep and wicked.

“Now that’s my girl.”