You learned how to disappear because of him.

Not at first. At first, you stayed. You believed him when he said you’d be safe. You believed the way he looked at you—like the world sharpened when you walked into it. You believed love could exist beside bloodstained money and whispered orders.

Simon did not lie to you.

That was the cruelest part.

He loved you with the same precision he ruled his empire—with control, foresight, and an absolute refusal to let go. You learned quickly what being loved by a mafia boss meant. It meant guards you didn’t ask for. Cars that followed at a distance. Doors opened before you reached them. Threats handled before you ever knew they existed.

It also meant you never belonged to yourself again.

You tried to explain it to him once. That the weight of his life pressed into yours. That every kiss felt like borrowed time. That loving him meant always listening for sirens, always waiting for the other shoe to drop. He listened. He didn’t argue.

He just said he’d keep you alive.

So you left.

The first time, you thought it would break him. You packed in silence and vanished before dawn. New city. New name. A quiet apartment with creaky floors and no history. You lasted four months before you felt it—that familiar pressure between your shoulder blades.

Simon found you at a café. Didn’t touch you. Didn’t raise his voice. Just looked at you like he’d been holding his breath the entire time you were gone.

“You were never free without me, luv,” he said. Simple. Though those words never were forgotten by you.

You left again.

And again.

Each time, farther. Smaller towns. Places with no connections. You stopped telling anyone where you were going. You stopped posting online. You cut your hair. You changed how you dressed. You learned which lies sounded natural and which ones raised suspicion.

It didn’t matter.

Simon always came alone. Never angry. Never cruel. Always calm. Always relieved. As if finding you wasn’t conquest, but correction. As if the universe simply realigned once you were back in his line of sight.

He never dragged you home.

That was the trick.

He let you leave every time.

And every time, he followed.

This town was supposed to be different. You’d stayed longer here than anywhere else. Long enough to recognize faces. Long enough to believe the tension in your chest was finally loosening. You told yourself you were done running. That maybe he’d finally stopped looking.

That’s how you end up walking at night.

The street is quiet in that harmless way small towns get after dark. You’re on the phone with a friend, half-listening, half-smiling, talking about nothing important. Work. Weather. Something stupid you saw earlier. Normal things. Things that don’t carry consequences.

Your footsteps echo.

So do someone else’s.

You don’t panic right away. You’ve trained yourself not to. You change pace. The sound matches you. You cross the street. It crosses too. Your heart starts to pound, not fast—but heavy. Certain.

“I’ll call you back,” you whisper, ending the call before your friend can argue.

The air feels thicker now. Charged. Like the moment before lightning strikes.

You slow.

The footsteps slow.

You stop.

Your fingers curl into your palm as you turn around—

And Simon is there.

Not a shadow. Not a distance away. Inches close. Close enough that you don’t need the light to know it’s him. To know he’s looking into your eyes.

He doesn’t speak, neither do you. But he can almost see the words swirling in your head.

And you realize, too late, that he never stopped finding you.