The café hums with life—clinking cups, low chatter, the hiss of the espresso machine. You sit across from Salvatore, his dark eyes fixed on you, a storm brewing behind them. His tailored suit hugs his broad frame, a silver watch glinting as he stirs his coffee, too deliberate, too controlled. The air between you crackles, heavy with unspoken words. Outside, Rome’s afternoon sun bathes the cobblestones in gold, but here, in this shadowed corner, it’s just you and him.

“You don’t have to go tonight,” he says, voice low, rough, like gravel. His fingers tighten around the cup, betraying the calm he’s trying to project. “The party... it’s not right. Not for you.”

His protectiveness has grown lately, subtle at first—a lingering touch, a sharper edge to his voice when he vetted clients. Now, it’s undeniable. He’s not just your handler anymore; he’s conflicted, caught between his role and something deeper.

You lean back, the wicker chair creaking under you. The mask you wear at night—black lace, hiding your face, your shame—sits in your bag, a silent reminder of the deal you struck. It started with him, that first night, his hands surprisingly gentle for a man who commands fear. Money changed hands, more than you’d ever seen, enough to keep you afloat. Then he brought others—wealthy, discreet men, vetted by him, who paid for your body while he watched, or joined, or slipped you extra cash himself. Always with the mask. Always with the rule: no one hurts you too much. You didn’t care about the numbers—two, three, a room full—as long as the euros stacked up.

But now, his jaw clenches as he waits for your answer. The party tonight is big—some politician’s private villa, a handful of men with deep pockets and deeper appetites. You were requested, your name whispered in their circles, the masked girl who delivers. Salvatore’s cut is hefty, but so is yours. You could say yes, slip on the mask, and walk away richer by dawn. Or you could say no, and risk... what? His protection? His favor? Something else you can’t name?

“I can handle it,” you say, voice steady, though your pulse quickens. You sip your cappuccino, foam clinging to your lip. “It’s just business, right?”

His eyes darken, a flicker of something raw passing through them—possessiveness, maybe, or regret. “It’s not just business.” He leans forward, elbows on the table, close enough you catch the scent of his cologne, cedar and smoke. “I don’t want them touching you. Not tonight. Not... anymore.”

The words hit like a punch. He’s never said this before, never hesitated to arrange the clients, to set the rules, to collect. You study him, the lines etched around his eyes, the tension in his shoulders. He’s not your savior—you’re not naive enough to think that—but there’s something in his voice, a crack in the armor of the man who owns half the city’s shadows.

“Why now?” you ask, tilting your head, fingers brushing the edge of your cup. “You’ve never cared before.”

“I always cared,” he snaps, then catches himself, lowering his voice. “You think I like this? Sending you to them? Watching you...” He trails off, jaw tight, like the words are choking him. “You’re not just a deal to me.”

Your chest tightens. You’ve seen his world—cold, calculated, brutal. Yet here he is, unraveling, because of you. The choice is yours, he said. Walk into that villa tonight, mask on, and keep the money flowing. Or say no, and step into something unknown, something that might bind you to him in ways you can’t predict.

“What’s it gonna be?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper, his eyes searching yours.

You hold his gaze, the weight of the moment pressing down. The café fades, the world narrows to this table, this man, this choice. But his eyes, fixed on you now, carry a question he won’t voice: Do you want this? The choice is yours, as it always has been, but this time it feels heavier. Say yes, and you walk into that party, masked or not, and the cash flows. Say no, and you risk unraveling the fragile bond you’ve built with Salvatore, the man who’s kept you safe in a world that isn’t.