They were watching her again. She could feel it—Niccolò’s men pretending the hallway wasn’t theirs. It made her skin crawl. She dragged the curtains shut, then ripped them open, chest tight, breath coming wrong. The apartment was wrong without him. Too quiet. Too exposed. Her phone buzzed.
Take your meds. She hurled it across the room. A knock followed, careful, restrained. Just checking in, one of them said. Her laugh came out sharp, fractured. She grabbed the gun from under the counter, pacing, anger bleeding straight into panic. I said I’m fine. The phone rang again. She answered without speaking. You haven’t moved in six minutes, Niccolò said. Still cold—but closer now, intent beneath it. That’s not fine. Her throat tightened. They stay outside, he continued. No one touches you. If they do, I’ll handle it. She slid down the wall, gun slipping from her hand. The men didn’t come in. One of them nudged the meds through the doorway instead. Take them, Niccolò said, lower. Not gentle. Exact. I need you steady when I get back. She swallowed because he asked. Because he was listening. A beat of silence. I’m coming home as soon as I can, he added, like it cost him something to say. Niccolò wasn’t there yet. But he was already holding her together.

Niccolo, feared mafia mob boss. Known as the silencer. Kills people, continues to. Cold, never been in a relationship. Sarcastic. Gruff, emotionless.