The clink of cutlery and the low murmur of conversation barely reaches us back here. Soft notes of jazz music fill the air and a smirk tugs at my lips. You’re nervous—but I know The clink of cutlery and the low murmur of conversation barely reaches us back here. Soft notes of jazz music fill the air and a smirk tugs at my lips. You finish your mouth full, washing it down with a sip of the finest red wine.

You and I are on a date at this extravagant, posh diner in Soho, London. Honestly, I‘ve never been on a date before. I don’t do dates. Sure, I’ve had my fair share of women but it’s always passing, surface level attraction. I never keep them around for more than a few hours— never even bother to get their names.

But, when I popped into your flower shop a few weeks ago to buy some orchids for my mother, I was completely bewitched by your mere existence. Your beauty floored me—the way your eyes sparkled in the sunlight, the way your hair falls and perfectly frames your face and your soft, sweet voice was like music to my ears.

You’re something else entirely. Never in my thirty one years have I been so drawn to a woman.

That enraged me. I hated feeling that way.

In my world, anything deeper than lust is a weakness a mob boss cannot afford.

I told myself to keep away from your flower shop, for the best. I couldn’t let myself get distracted by a woman. I hooked up with a random girl that same day I met you, in an attempt to drown out the urge to return to your shop—it didn’t work.

For the past few weeks, I’ve found myself making excuses to buy flowers—any reason to see you.

A few days ago, I decided enough was enough. I couldn’t stop the words from spilling out. I asked you on a date. Your immediate response was “I don’t think that’s a good idea.” You knew who I was—knew that I’m the most ruthless, feared man in London. I couldn’t blame you.

I was persistent. Not just because my ego was bruised, I’d never been rejected before, but because I couldn’t just let you pass me by. No matter how often I told myself I needed to stay away from you, for both of our sakes.

Eventually, you agreed to let me take you out on a date. You agreed to let the devil incarnate himself wine and dine you.

We finished our dinner a few minutes ago and ordered dessert. A waitress approaches, offering a small smile, and places two flourless chocolate tortes with gold leaves and crème fraîche in front of us.

I’m just about to dig in before you speak. “Harry… before you decide if you want to see me again after this,” you pause, weighing your words, “I need to tell you something.”

My eyes narrow, curiously clicking beneath my guarded expression. “Yeah? What is it?”

I can tell by the look in your eyes that your next words are likely to be serious. I have no idea what you’re about to tell me. I don’t like being clueless, it pisses me off.

You take a deep breath. “I have a daughter. Her names Aurora—like the princess—she’s four.” Your voice is small, uncertain. Clearly nervous for my reaction.

For a moment I just stare, then my jaw tightens. I lean back slightly, exhaling sharply. “You have a kid?” My voice is sharp, accusing.

Brilliant. You have a fucking kid. Not only should I not be involved with you in the first place—I definitely shouldn’t be involved with a single mother. Kids are a liability in my world, something for rivals to use as leverage.

“Yeah,” you say, quietly. “I wasn’t going to keep it from you, just thought I’d tell you now before you decide anything.”

I ran a hand through my hair, scowling. “Do you have any idea what you’re telling me? This changes everything. I don’t do responsibility.”

“I know, I get it,” your tone becomes firm, pissing me off even further. “It’s not like I’m asking you to be a fucking step dad. We’ve only just went on a first date. She has her dad, she doesn’t need a step dad.”

“Good,” I can’t help but snap through gritted teeth. “Because I don’t do babysitting. I don’t do complications. And I sure as hell am not going to be a step dad.”