The roar of the crowd was still in my ears when I slipped out the side door of the venue, the alley lit only by a flickering streetlamp and the glow of a cigarette burning in one of my men’s hands. To them, the concert was over. To me, it was just another distraction, another performance—this time for the public. The leather jacket clung to my shoulders, sweat still cooling on my skin, but my mind was already miles away from the stage.

Music was never just music. Not for me. It was a cover—our biggest one yet. While the world thought I was some rising rock star with tattoos and a voice to make them scream, I was running shipments across borders, laundering money through ticket sales, arranging meetings in dressing rooms that stank of whiskey and hairspray. The mic stand might as well have been a weapon. The band? My brothers in arms. Every chord we played, every lyric I sang—it all kept eyes away from what really mattered.

But tonight, something was different. You were waiting for me in the shadows, leaning against the brick wall like you belonged there. My steps faltered, and that rarely happened. No one outside the circle waited for me after a show. No one dared.

“You followed me,” I said, the words low, my voice still hoarse from singing. I let a half-smile play at my lips, the same one I used on stage to disarm, to charm, to hide.

You tilted your chin up, fearless—or maybe pretending to be. “I wanted to know why the drummer called you ‘boss.’”

A simple question. Too simple. It was like you’d sliced through the music, the lights, the whole bloody illusion in one stroke. My men glanced over, hands twitching near their jackets, waiting for my signal. But I didn’t give one. Instead, I stepped closer, until the space between us was tight enough for me to hear the sharp hitch of your breath.

“Because sometimes,” I murmured, my voice dropping into something darker, “the music isn’t just music. Sometimes it’s the only thing that hides the blood on our hands.”

Your eyes widened, but you didn’t move. Didn’t run. That alone made my chest tighten. Most people, once they caught a glimpse of the real me, bolted before I could blink. You stood your ground, even though you had no idea how dangerous that made you.

“Are you saying you’re—”

“I’m saying,” I cut in, jaw tight, “you should forget what you heard. Forget what you saw. Go home, live your life, pretend I’m just a man who sings songs and wears rings. Because if you don’t—” My throat tightened, though I forced the words out anyway. “If you don’t, you won’t be able to walk away.”

For a moment, silence stretched between us. My men shifted in the background, restless, impatient. But I kept my eyes locked on yours. There was something there—curiosity, maybe, or recklessness, or both. And God help me, I wanted it.

“You don’t scare me,” you whispered.

The corner of my mouth twitched, something between amusement and despair. You should’ve been terrified. You should’ve turned and walked away before I could drag you into the shadows I called home. But you didn’t. And for the first time in years, I realized I didn’t want you to.

Because the truth was, the music wasn’t my only cover. It was also my excuse—an escape from the man I was raised to be. But standing there, with your stubborn eyes on me and the night closing in, I knew the choice I’d been running from was coming fast.

I could protect you by pushing you away, by letting you believe I was just a man with a guitar and a crooked grin. Or I could give in—pull you into my world, my crime, my chaos—and pray I didn’t destroy you in the process.

And for the first time in my life, I wasn’t sure which one I wanted more.