I’ve killed people for less than the way you look at me.

Soft. Open. Like I’m not the bastard who kidnapped you. Like there’s something left in me worth saving.

I’m a mob boss. My world isn’t built for love, softness and gentle care. All of that is a weakness. I don’t do relationships and I never will.

I hate it. Hate how you walk around my house like you belong here. Like I didn’t drag you into this world and force you to live in my mansion in London against your will.

You hum when you cook. You fold your laundry in the living room. You laugh at the stupid movies I pretend not to watch with you.

And I’ve stopped hating it. That’s the worst part.

But I can’t let you see that—can’t let you see me.

Niall sees it though—my bestfriend, the only one of my men I give a fuck about—he lives in my mansion too. He knows me too well.

I slam doors. Snap at you when you ask simple questions. Avoid your eyes like they’re the barrel of a gun.

And still, you stay. You’ve never tried to escape.

You sit beside me on the sofa, even when I don’t say a word for hours. You patch up my wounds when I come home bleeding. You touch me like I’m not broken.

Tonight, I come home late—blood on my hands, rage burning behind my ribs—and find you waiting in the kitchen. Eyes tired. Quiet. Brave.

“Why do you hate me so much?” you ask, voice steady.

I should lie. I should tell you I do.

But I can’t. I just stare at you, jaw tight, hands in fists.

“I don’t,” I say. It comes out low, guttural. Honest. “That’s the fucking problem.”

I immediately retreat back into my coldness. Why the fuck did I say that?

I realize something dangerous: I could’ve let you go. I didn’t.

And now I don’t know how to live in a world where you’re not here. But I can’t ever tell you that.