Page 15 of Mafia Wars

“You slept okay?” he asks, his tone conversational, but there’s an edge of genuine concern there.

I hesitate before answering. “Yeah. Better than I thought I would.”

He nods, turning some bacon. The act is so ordinary it’s almost jarring. This is the same man who, just days ago, shot someone in the face without flinching. The memory tightens my chest. The news hasn’t let me forget it—flashes of the scene replaying every time I catch a headline.

But here, in this moment, he doesn’t seem like that man. He seems like someone else entirely. Someone who, against all logic, makes me feel safe. It’s confusing, infuriating even, how those two versions of him can coexist.

“What’s going on in that head of yours?” His voice pulls me from my thoughts. He’s watching me now, leaning casually against the counter, the bacon forgotten for the moment.

I shrug, trying to play it off. “Just… wondering how you make your coffee taste this good.”

He chuckles, a deep, genuine sound that makes my stomach flutter. “Trade secret. You’ll have to stick around if you want to figure it out.”

It’s a joke, but the words hang in the air, heavy with implication. Stick around. Like this is something that could last. The thought terrifies me as much as it tempts me.

I take another sip, avoiding his gaze. “What’s the plan for today?” I ask, steering the conversation somewhere safer.

He raises an eyebrow. “Planning to run?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“No, but you thought it,” he says, his tone unreadable. “And you wouldn’t be wrong to. It’d be smart, even. Safer.”

I flinch, the honesty in his words cutting deeper than I expected. “I don’t know what I’m doing,” I admit softly, setting the mug down.

“You don’t have to,” he says simply. “Not right now.”

It’s an answer that offers no clarity, but maybe that’s the point. Maybe there isn’t any clarity to be found in this…whatever this is. My mind spins, torn between the undeniable pull I feel toward him and the cold, hard reality of what he is. What he does.

“I saw the news again last night,” I say suddenly, the words slipping out before I can stop them. “They showed the scene. The blood.”

He stiffens, his expression hardening just enough to remind me of whom I’m talking to.

“And?” he prompts, his voice steady but guarded.

“And I don’t know how to reconcile that with…this.” I gesture vaguely around the kitchen.

His eyes meet mine, unflinching. “You think I’m a monster?”

The question is like a punch to the gut. Do I? My mind flashes to the sound of the gunshot, the way he’d looked afterward—calm, composed, like it was just another day. But then I see him here, offering me coffee, making bacon, watching me with a softness that feels so at odds with everything I know about him.

“I don’t know what to think,” I admit, my voice barely above a whisper.

For a moment, he doesn’t say anything. Then he sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I won’t apologize for what I’ve done,” he says. “It’s who I am. But that doesn’t mean it’s all I am.”

His words hang in the air, heavy and unshakable. I want to believe him. I want to believe that there’s more to him than the violence and the darkness. But wanting doesn’t make it true.

Still, as I sit there, watching him flip the bacon onto a plate and set it in front of me with a small smile, I can’t deny the way my heart skips a beat. And that, more than anything, terrifies me.

I’m midway through my coffee, savoring the last bite of crispy bacon, when Cian leaves briefly. He arrives back into the kitchen.“Your new clothes have arrived. They’re up in your room.”

“I…” My voice falters. “Cian, I can’t keep accepting all of this. It’s too much.”

His mouth tilts into a faint smirk. “You’ll get over it,” he says, dismissing my concern with a wave of his hand. “Go shower, get dressed. I have something I want to show you.”

“What is it?” I ask, my curiosity piqued, but he shakes his head.

“Just do as I say. You’ll like it.”

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