Ezra's POV
The moment I step into Giovanni Vitale's office, I know I'm going to die here.
The room smells like cigar smoke and old money. Behind a massive desk sits a man who looks like Marco will in thirty years, same sharp features, same dark eyes, but colder. So much colder. Like looking into eyes that have watched countless people die and felt nothing.
So. Giovanni's voice is smooth, cultured, and absolutely terrifying. You're the reason my son has been distracted.
My throat closes. Marco's hand presses against my lower back, steadying me or warning me, I can't tell which.
Yes, sir. The words come out steadier than I feel. I'm Ezra Chen.
Giovanni leans back in his leather chair, studying me like I'm an insect he's deciding whether to crush or keep in a jar. His fingers drum once on the armrest. Just once. But that single gesture makes my skin crawl.
Sit.
Marco guides me to one of two chairs facing the desk. We sit together, close enough that our shoulders touch. Marco's presence should be comforting, but I can feel the tension radiating off him in waves.
This man scares even his own son.
Ezra Chen, Giovanni repeats, like he's tasting my name. Northwestern graduate student. Economics and criminology. Full scholarship. No criminal record. Parents in Seattle—a surgeon and an accountant. Older sister, younger brother. He smiles, and it's worse than his frown. Did I miss anything?
He investigated me. Of course he did. My hands shake in my lap.
No, sir. That's accurate.
Interesting choice of study. Organized crime. Giovanni picks up a cigar, rolling it between his fingers without lighting it. Tell me, what does your thesis say about families like mine?
It's a trap. Every instinct screams that it's a trap.
Marco's hand finds mine under the desk, squeezing once. A reminder: be smart.
I force myself to meet Giovanni's eyes even though it feels like staring at a predator.
My thesis argues that legacy matters more than profit in family businesses, I say, choosing each word carefully. That loyalty is the real currency, and reputation is actual power. Traditional business schools don't understand what you do—they teach profit margins and quarterly earnings. But families like yours endure because you understand something they don't.
And what's that? Giovanni's eyes narrow.
That trust is earned in blood. That reputation takes generations to build and seconds to destroy. That some things are worth more than money. I lean forward slightly. My professors think organized crime is dying because it's inefficient compared to corporate structures. But they're wrong. Families like yours survive because you value things corporations never will—loyalty, legacy, honor.
The silence stretches so long I'm certain I said the wrong thing.
Then Giovanni laughs.
Actually laughs—a genuine, surprised sound that makes Marco's grip on my hand tighten.
Smart, Giovanni says, pointing the cigar at me. Very smart. Maybe too smart. His smile fades. Tell me, Ezra, when did you start fucking my son?
I choke on air. Marco goes absolutely still beside me.
Father, Marco starts.
I'm asking him. Giovanni's voice could freeze fire. When?
My mind races. Marco said three months. We agreed on three months.
Four months ago, I hear myself say. We met at a coffee shop near campus. He was reading a book in Italian. I asked what it was about.
It's a lie, but it sounds true. Details make lies believable.
And you just happened to start a relationship with the heir to Chicago's most powerful crime family? Giovanni's skepticism is palpable. What a remarkable coincidence.
I didn't know who he was at first. The lie flows easier now. He didn't tell me his last name for two weeks. By the time I figured it out, I was already... I glance at Marco, let real fear show in my eyes because it's not hard to fake. I was already in too deep to walk away.
In too deep, Giovanni repeats. How romantic. He stands, walking around the desk with the casual grace of a hunting cat. Do you know what I do to people who lie to me, Ezra?
My heart hammers. Yes, sir.
Do you know what I do to people who threaten my family?
Yes, sir.
He stops directly in front of me, close enough that I smell his expensive cologne mixed with cigar smoke. Up close, he's even more terrifying—all controlled power and barely leashed violence.
Then you understand that if you're using my son, if this is some scheme to infiltrate my organization, to gather information, to hurt my family... He leans down, hands on the armrests of my chair, trapping me. I will make your death last days. And I'll make Marco watch.
I can't breathe. Can't move. Can't do anything except meet his eyes and pray he doesn't see through me.
I love him, I whisper, and the crazy thing is, in this moment of absolute terror, it almost feels true. I know it's dangerous. I know you could kill me for it. But I can't help how I feel.
Giovanni stares at me for an eternity. Then he straightens, turns to Marco.
You're really doing this? Throwing away everything I've built for this?
Marco's jaw tightens. I'm not throwing away anything. Ezra doesn't interfere with business.
Everything interferes with business! Giovanni slams his hand on the desk, making me jump. You think the other families won't use this? You think they won't see you as weak?
Let them try. Marco's voice is ice. I'm still your heir. Still your son. Still capable of doing what needs to be done.
Are you? Giovanni's eyes narrow. Because from where I'm standing, you're compromised. Emotional. Weak.
Marco stands slowly, and suddenly the temperature in the room drops ten degrees.
I've never failed you, he says quietly. Every job you've given me, I've completed. Every enemy you've named, I've eliminated. Every order you've issued, I've followed. My personal life doesn't change that.
Father and son face each other, and I'm watching two predators decide whether to fight or back down.
Finally, Giovanni sits behind his desk again.
Three months, he says.
What? Marco's mask cracks slightly.
You have three months to prove this relationship is real. That he's not a liability, not a weakness, not a threat. Giovanni's smile is sharp. Bring him to family events. Let me watch how you interact. Let me see if this... love... is genuine or just youthful stupidity.
And if you decide it's real? Marco asks carefully.
Then I'll tolerate it. Barely. Giovanni's eyes find mine again. But if I discover you're lying, if I find out Ezra is anything other than what you claim...
He doesn't finish. The threat hangs in the air like poison.
We'll prove it, Marco says firmly. Three months is more than enough.
Giovanni waves his hand dismissively. Get out. Both of you. I have actual work to do.
Marco takes my elbow, guiding me to my feet. My legs shake so badly I'm not sure they'll support me. We walk to the door, and I'm almost in the hallway when Giovanni speaks again.
Oh, and Ezra?
I turn, every muscle tense.
Giovanni's smile is colder than death itself.
I'll be watching you. Every moment. Every conversation. Every move you make. He lights his cigar, the flame reflecting in his dark eyes. One mistake, and you'll learn exactly why people fear the Vitale name.
Understood, sir, I manage.
We make it to the hallway. Down the grand staircase. Through the massive front doors of the Vitale estate. Out to the car parked in the circular driveway.
My legs give out the moment we're outside.
Marco catches me before I hit the ground, his arm wrapping around my waist. For a long moment, we just stand there—him holding me up while I shake uncontrollably.
Breathe, he says quietly. It's over. You survived.
Three months, I whisper against his shoulder. He gave us three months to prove we're really in love.
I know. Marco's hand rubs slow circles on my back. But you were perfect in there. Better than I could have hoped.
He doesn't believe us. I could see it in his eyes.
He's suspicious. That's different from knowing. Marco pulls back enough to look at me, his hands steady on my shoulders. My father suspects everything and everyone. It's how he's stayed alive this long. But you gave him just enough truth mixed with the lies that he can't be certain.
What if he figures it out? What if we can't convince him?
Marco's expression darkens. Then we have three months to come up with a plan B.
He helps me into the passenger seat, and I notice his hands are shaking too. Even Marco—cold, controlled Marco—is rattled by his father.
We drive in silence for several blocks. I stare out the window, watching Chicago pass by, trying to process that I just sat across from one of the most dangerous men in the city and somehow walked out alive.
Ezra.
I turn to look at Marco. His eyes are still on the road, but his jaw is tight.
Yeah?
What you said in there. About loving me. His grip tightens on the steering wheel. That was just for my father, right? Just part of the act?
The question catches me off guard. I study his profile—the sharp line of his jaw, the tension in his shoulders, the way he won't look at me.
He actually cares about the answer.
Of course, I say, even though something in my chest tightens at the lie. Just part of the act.
Marco nods once, expression unreadable. Good. That's good. We need to keep things clear between us. Know what's real and what's performance.
Right. Clear.
We fall silent again.
Marco pulls into the underground parking garage of his building and kills the engine. But instead of getting out immediately, he sits there, hands still gripping the wheel.
My father meant what he said, Marco says quietly. He'll be watching us. Testing us. Looking for any crack in the story.
I know.
Which means we can't mess up. Not once. Not in public, not at family dinners, not anywhere he might have eyes.
I understand.
Finally, Marco turns to look at me. Really look at me. His dark eyes search my face like he's trying to memorize every detail.
You did well today, he says. Really well. I know how terrifying he is, and you held your ground. Looked him in the eye. Sold the lie. His hand reaches out, and I think he's going to touch my face, but at the last second he drops it to his lap. Thank you.
For what?
For not breaking. For not giving us away. Marco's voice drops even lower. For staying alive.
The weight of those words settles between us.
Marco, I say carefully, can I ask you something?
Depends on the question.
Why did you really save me? In the warehouse, you could have just killed me. It would have been easier, safer. So why didn't you?
Marco is quiet for so long I think he won't answer. Then he reaches out and takes my hand—not urgently like in his father's office, not for show like at the restaurant, but carefully, deliberately.
Like it means something.
Honestly? I still don't know. His thumb traces over my knuckles. I looked at you, terrified and shaking, and I just... couldn't. Couldn't add another innocent person to the list of people I've killed for my father's empire.
So I'm just guilt management?
Maybe at first. His eyes meet mine. But now? Now you're something else entirely.
What?
Marco's smile is small and sad. I'm still figuring that out.
We sit there in the dim parking garage, hands linked, neither of us moving to leave the car. The silence should be awkward, but it's not. It's almost... comfortable.
Finally, Marco releases my hand and opens his door.
Come on. We both need a drink after that.
I follow him to the elevator, my legs still unsteady. We ride up in silence, and I can feel the adrenaline starting to crash, exhaustion creeping in to replace fear.
The penthouse doors open, and Marco heads straight for the bar. He pours two glasses of whiskey—expensive stuff that probably costs more than my monthly rent used to—and hands one to me.
To surviving Giovanni Vitale, he says, raising his glass.
To three months, I add.
We drink. The whiskey burns going down, sharp and grounding.
Marco sets his glass down and turns to face me fully. In the soft light of the penthouse, he looks different—younger, more vulnerable, less like the cold killer from the warehouse and more like just a man carrying impossible weight.
The real game begins now, he says quietly. My father will be watching closer than ever. We'll need to be more convincing, spend more time together, create a history that looks real enough to fool him.
How do we do that?
We live it. Marco steps closer. We go on dates. We learn each other's habits. We create inside jokes and shared memories. We make this relationship look so real that even we start to believe it sometimes.
My heart does something complicated in my chest. And when the three months are up? If we convince him?
Then we figure out what comes next. Marco's hand rises, and this time he does touch my face—gentle fingers tracing my cheekbone. But for now, we survive. Together.
Together, I echo.
His hand lingers on my face for another heartbeat, then drops away. The loss of contact feels more significant than it should.
Get some rest, Marco says, stepping back and creating distance between us. Tomorrow we start building our cover story properly. And Ezra?
I pause at the hallway leading to my room. Yeah?
Marco's expression is serious, almost pleading.
You did well today. Really well. But remember—my father is the most dangerous man you'll ever meet. One wrong move, one slip, one moment where we're not perfectly in sync...
He doesn't need to finish.
I know, I say softly. We're both dead.
Exactly.
I head to my room, close the door, and finally let myself collapse on the bed. My entire body is shaking, the fear and adrenaline and stress of the past hour crashing over me all at once.
Three months.
Ninety days to convince a killer that our fake love is real.
Ninety days to live a lie so convincing that we might forget it's a lie at all.
I stare at the ceiling and wonder which would be worse: failing to convince Giovanni and dying, or succeeding so well that I actually fall for the man who's holding me captive.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. A text from Jordan: You've been MIA for days. Everything okay?
I stare at the message, at this connection to my old life that feels impossibly distant now.
I should tell them something. Marco said I could tell one person I'm seeing someone.
My fingers hover over the keyboard, and I type: Met someone. It's new and kind of intense. Need some space to figure things out. I'm okay, I promise.
Jordan's response comes immediately: OMG EZRA HAS A BOYFRIEND. Details immediately or I'm showing up at your apartment.
I smile despite everything. Later. Promise. Just need some time.
Fine, but I'm holding you to that. Love you, be safe.
Love you too.
I set the phone down and close my eyes, but sleep doesn't come.
All I can think about is Giovanni's cold smile, Marco's gentle touch, and the countdown that started today.
Three months.
The clock is ticking.
And I have no idea if we're going to survive it.