Ariana sat in the velvet chair near the window, arms crossed tightly over her chest. Her untouched glass of wine sat on the nearby table, catching the light of the chandelier overhead. She hadn't taken a single sip.
Brandon stood across the room, silent, unmoving, watching her like she was something delicate and dangerous all at once.
"This place," she said finally, eyes scanning the sprawling study with its massive bookshelves, leather-bound volumes, and art too expensive to be fake. "It's not just a safehouse."
"No," he replied. "It's one of mine."
She raised an eyebrow. "One of?"
He didn't elaborate.
Of course he didn't.
"Are you going to tell me what you really do, or are we still pretending this is just about safety?"
He stepped closer, slow and calculated. "No pretending. I'm in the business of power. Control. I move things—people, money, weapons—without anyone knowing. I end threats before they make the news. I buy silence. I erase mistakes."
She swallowed hard. "You're Mafia."
"I'm the Mafia. In this city, at least."
Ariana stood slowly, her heart pounding but her voice steady. "And I'm supposed to feel safe with you?"
He reached into his coat and pulled out a phone. With a few taps, he turned the screen to face her.
Footage played.
A camera feed.
Her apartment hallway.
Then—movement.
A man, face obscured by a hoodie, gloved hands testing the lock on her door.
Her breath caught.
It wasn't Brandon.
It was someone else.
"I intercepted him before he could get inside," Brandon said. "But if I hadn't been watching, if I hadn't put security in place—he would've been in your bed before you ever knew it."
Her knees weakened.
She dropped back into the chair.
Brandon knelt in front of her, still holding the phone.
"This is real. What's coming for you—what's circling your life right now—is bigger than a breakup or a betrayal. It's bigger than me, even. But I'm the only one who knows how to stop it."
She shook her head, eyes wide. "Why me? I'm nobody. I'm just a girl who works at a bookstore."
He studied her like he could read every thought through her skin.
"You're not nobody. You were involved with someone who crossed the wrong people."
Her stomach flipped. "James?"
Brandon's jaw flexed, but he didn't answer.
"You said he doesn't come in until the middle," he murmured to himself. Then looked at her. "Forget I said anything."
Her pulse spiked. "What do you know about him?"
He stood. Pacing once, sharply, then stopped.
"I know you loved him. And I know he betrayed you with the one person you trusted."
"Nicole."
His voice dipped into a dangerous softness. "You deserve better than the way they broke you."
Her eyes narrowed. "And you think you are better?"
"No," he said simply. "But I'm honest about what I am. That's more than he ever gave you."
She stood again. The emotional whiplash was catching up to her. "You want me to stay here."
"Yes."
"Why should I?"
He took a step forward. "Because I have rules. And if you follow them, you'll stay alive."
"Rules," she repeated. "What am I, your prisoner?"
"No," Brandon said. "You're under my protection. There's a difference."
"And what if I say no?"
He stared at her.
Then walked to the wall, opened a cabinet, and pulled out a file.
He dropped it on the table.
Ariana stepped forward.
Inside were surveillance photos. Her. Her apartment. The alley behind her work. Even a shot of her in the café—only this time, it wasn't Brandon's angle.
These were someone else's.
Not from a phone.
From a scope.
"Still think I'm the worst option?" he asked.
She sank into the chair again, pulse thudding.
"How long have you known about this?"
"Long enough. But I didn't act until they got close."
"And your rules?"
He leaned on the edge of the desk. "You don't leave without telling me. You don't answer unknown numbers. You don't let anyone into this house. And if I say move—you move. No hesitation. No questions."
She stared at him. "You're asking me to give up my entire life."
"I'm telling you it's already gone."
The words landed like a gut punch.
Tears pricked her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. "What if I still say no?"
Brandon walked toward her slowly.
He crouched beside her chair again, and this time, his voice was softer. Darker.
"Then I'll walk away. I'll stop watching. And the next time someone comes for you, they won't knock first."
She looked at him—really looked at him.
The sharp lines of his face.
The promise of violence in his every move.
The pain just beneath his control.
She didn't trust him.
But she feared what waited outside more.
"…Fine," she whispered. "I'll stay. For now."
Brandon nodded once. "Then we begin."