The sting of sunlight makes me wince. I flutter my eyes open, immediately feeling the sting of pain. Wait... Why's my back not hurt? I gingerly touch the place where I felt blood seeping out. Nothing. But... this hand feels big and rough like the one I felt on me before passing out.
What the hell?!
I immediately look around. Nope, not in my cluttered apartment anymore. The air smells like expensive cologne and stale smoke. My skin itches against the crisp silk of a shirt that isn't mine. My fingers tremble as I raise a hand—and catch sight of it: calloused, scarred, too large to be me.
A voice breaks the silence—deep, smooth, with a dangerous edge.
"Secondo."
I turn, heart pounding in a way that's too familiar.
The man who kidnapped her.
The man I am supposed to command now.
His lips curl into a cruel smirk. "Sleeping much, lil Boss? The Boss's been waiting."
My breath catches. I am the nightmare I created.
I wrote the devil into existence. Now I'm wearing his face.
The door clicks shut behind him, and suddenly I'm alone with this nightmare.
Panic hits me like a freight train. I'm trapped. Trapped in a man's body. His body. The body of a cold-blooded killer—the very monster I dreamed up in the darkest corners of my mind.
I stagger toward a cracked mirror, heart pounding so hard I swear I can hear it echo. The face staring back? That sharp, chiseled mess of sin and whiskey eyes. My creation. My doom.
I reach up to touch the stubble scratching my fingers. It's rough, like sandpaper, and way too much chin to cover with concealer.
Then I look down.
And holy hell.
There it is. The hammer. The damn hammer.
I clutch my chest like someone just kicked me in the ribs.
"Is this… part of the job description?" I ask the empty room. "Because, seriously, who needs guns when you've got this?"
I try to shrink away from it, but it's like trying to hide a damn tree trunk in a suitcase.
I swear I can hear the ghost of my old writer self screaming, You wrote this?
Laughter bursts out of me — hysterical, crazy, half hysteria, half relief.
"Great," I say, voice cracking in this absurdly deep tone. "Now I'm a walking weapon of mass destruction."
Or mass population production?
I look around for a solid mirror. The room is ridiculous.
Not "rich" ridiculous—mafia boss lair ridiculous. A chandelier drips from the ceiling like molten gold, scattering light over silk curtains the color of midnight. There's a king-sized bed so huge I could land a helicopter on it, draped in velvet the shade of spilled wine. Persian rugs cover the floor, the kind that look too expensive to step on with dirty shoes, and an ornate oak desk sits in the corner littered with papers, maps, and… is that a dagger?
I turn in a slow circle, heart pounding. "Where's the damn mirror?"
Nothing. No tall vanity, no bathroom door in sight—just walls swallowing me in expensive intimidation. I mutter under my breath, yanking open the carved wardrobe—nope, just a wall of pressed black suits and crisp white shirts. My pulse spikes. "Seriously? Mafia guy and no mirror? What is this, vampire rules?"
Then I spot it—half hidden behind the curtains. A full-length mirror framed in black metal, standing like a secret. My breath catches.
I walk toward it slowly, every step heavier than the last.
What if it's not him? What if this is just some crazy fever dream? My palms sweat, my throat tightens. But when I get close enough, the air around me feels different—thicker, like it knows what I'm about to see.
And then…
Oh. My. God.
Whiskey eyes. Not just brown—liquid whiskey, with that molten gold glint that could slice through bone. Dark curls fall in deliberate chaos across his forehead, framing chiseled cheekbones and a jaw so sharp it could be a weapon. My own breath fogs the glass as I lean closer, tracing the outline of lips—full, infuriatingly perfect lips—my lips.
I blink once, twice. Nope. Still him. Still the exact face I wrote about, right down to the faint scar cutting through his left brow.
My stomach flips. I know I should be freaking out, screaming, throwing something—anything—at this cosmic joke. But instead… I almost fall for him. For me. For the man I built in fiction, brought to life by some cruel magic.
I press my palm against the cold glass, heart racing like I'm staring into the eyes of a stranger who knows exactly how I'll die.
Almost. I almost forget it's me. I can't stop staring.
It's him. My Secondo. The exact man I pulled from my own imagination, standing here in flesh and bone — except the flesh is mine now. His whiskey eyes blink when I blink, his lips part when I breathe. The curve of his jaw shifts when I tilt my head.
My brain should be melting in terror right now. Instead, something else takes over.
I grin. Slowly. Wickedly.
"Oh… oh, this is bad. This is so bad."
And then I just—burst. I spin away from the mirror, laughing like I've just won the lottery and skipped paying taxes. "No more period crap! No more cramps! No more chocolate cravings at 2 a.m.! No more 'oops, where's my birth control?' panic attacks!" My laughter pitches higher. "I'm free! I could run a marathon without bleeding like a slaughterhouse!"
Still laughing, I throw myself onto the massive bed, sinking into velvet sheets softer than sin. I stretch my new, muscular arms wide, staring at the gilded ceiling. The sheer weight of the mattress swallows me whole. "I'm in a luxury penthouse. In a mafia boss's body. With abs. And biceps. And—" My eyes dart down my new torso, then further. My grin turns unholy. "Oh. Oh-ho-ho. Hello. That's… that's not a pistol, that's a hammer. I could build a house with this thing—"
I snort so hard I choke, flopping back on the bed, legs spread like I own the world.
The chandelier catches my eye again. The absurdity of it all makes me laugh harder, my voice echoing against the high ceiling.
And then… I stop.
The sound dies in my throat like someone just pulled the plug. The grin slides off my face. My chest rises and falls slower, heavier.
Because this isn't just a vacation in someone else's skin. This man—this body—kills for a living. And every mafia enemy he's ever made is now my problem.
The velvet doesn't feel soft anymore... It feels like a trap.
Just as I was adjusting with this new found body and face that I am about to live in for God knows how long, the buzz of his phone breaks off my trance.
Gathering the last bit of courage I pick it up, "Hello?"
"YOU," a woman's voice. "WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON?"
I get so scared at the voice I hang up like it's the damn Masked man. I turn off that damn phone. Who the hell was that? Didn't I...get reborn?
WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?!