At fourteen, my name became a whisper on the streets. With both parents dead or thought to be, many assumed my brothers and I had perished with them, or didn't care enough to assume. But my father, despite his strengths, managed to make enough enemies in his time that some were singularly dedicated to my demise.

By age sixteen, I had over twenty hits ordered on me. All active at the same time. And everywhere I went, I could practically taste it. The desire to wipe us out was tangible. It hung in the air and clung to every interaction I had; two seconds of eye contact with a stranger, the accidental brushing of a shoulder on a crowded street.

My brothers and I were not going to survive. And then I saved us.

After that, surviving was all we knew how to do. As the oldest son of Caporegime Antonio Romano, those streets were either going to become my empire or my grave. And I quickly discovered the only drug I'd ever become addicted to, the one thing that made surviving worth it.

Power.

To Italians, family comes second to nothing. Family is someone you can respect, an ally, someone to defer to. And in the organization, there is no business—no power—without family. 

But I never had my father like that. Once he gave up on us, it only increased his strengths as a businessman. He didn't let love or pride cloud his judgment. But while he couldn't feel love, he could feel hatred. It consumed him. Ruined him. 

So what I had from my father was his name, following me around like an illness impossible to shake. It made me indifferent. I thought little of legacy and progeny. There was nothing to value, nothing to hold on equal ground with good business, with power and wealth. I wasn't here because of my family. I was here because of me. If I could feel love, I would feel it for my brothers and nobody else.

But even love wouldn't change the reality of our upbringing. At some point my indifference sharpened into desire; I want the Romano name to end with me and my brothers. This family doesn't know how to be preserved. We know how to survive. We know how to be brothers, not fathers.

The power and wealth I've built is an empire that will die with me. It works for me and my brothers. I have never tried to open its doors for anyone else, and I never will.

As I watch Vivienne sleep, something burns in my chest, and I don't know why.

She crumped to the floor in the hallway as if she had been shot. I knew she hadn't been, but I'd seen it happen many times. I have never known one person who died from natural causes, and I doubt I ever will. I myself will likely expire at some point before old age kicks in—that, or I'll be riding out a life sentence.

I would rather die before the latter happens—and I always manage to get what I want—so my fate is sure. But not for her. She is going to live longer, live right to the end of a lengthy, satisfying life, and she'll probably find someone she wants beside her for all of it. People tend to do that.

When it comes to Vivienne, I tend to find satisfaction in all thoughts relating to her. But not that one.

Like all the other new things beating at my chest, I can hardly stand it. The only soft part of me is reserved for my brothers. Even that part is worn out and empty, but it used to operate better.

When we were young, one of the hits ordered on me got carried out on Tommaso. Santo and I found him in a ditch with a hole in his chest. Afterwards, Santo told me that I had been incoherent. I wasn't sure if I was watching my brother die or waiting for him to be saved, and that did something to me. The languages I learned as a child—Spanish, Russian, French, and later some Japanese and Arabic— became a senseless jumble in my head. I was reduced to disjointedness. 

In the hallway, I must have been jabbering back and forth between several languages until I pulled my head together enough to get Vivienne laying down.

It takes a few hours for sleep to catch her and even then, she's frowning and tossing around. Eventually, my body is too stiff to sit any longer. I call out of work for her before going to my room, pulling out my laptop, and connecting to the call with Adamo.

Twenty minutes into it, I can't shake the feeling that something is off with him. The differences are subtle—he's quieter, slower to tease me, distracted.

"So," he says in an odd tone when there's a lull in the conversation, "this... girl. I never thought I'd see the day you were interested in someone romantically. Can you tell me about her?"

"No."

He was expecting that answer. "I think it's important you try and communicate the extent of your feelings towards her. I'm sure it's confusing, whatever you're feeling. And powerful. But... Massimo, your brain is wired differently. You need to ask yourself if forming a connection with her is the right thing for both of you. With all due respect, I'm more worried for her than I am for you. If you care for her, you must also care for her safety. You know what I mean?"

His strange mood from earlier makes sense. Adamo is one of the only people I respect, and with good reason. He may be right, but that doesn't warrant us talking about it.

"I do, Adamo. I'm managing it."

The word 'different' has been used to describe me countless times, and it's never bothered me. But it bothers me now. And I can't figure out why.

He goes on for a while—about how being different doesn't mean I don't deserve good things. How I can still do what I want, I just need to be careful how I do them. All things I've heard before from him. Adamo believes he can recognize my reality without denying my deficiencies, and make it tolerable without glossing over them.

Nearing the end of our call, Adamo suddenly pales. It's drastic enough that I stop talking, wondering what it was I said.

"You took yourself off your insomnia medication?" he rasps.

Adamo has recommended me hundreds of things—some I denied, some I tried, some I experimented with before denying. It's not unusual. Or, it never has been, but his expression now is akin to horror.

"You need to get back on it right now," he snaps. I don't think I've ever heard him sound this urgent. "You can't just quit a medication like that. It—It'll play with your mind."

I consider his words skeptically. I had been certain I'd already experienced the adverse effects of taking myself off the drugs. My withdrawal symptoms, the foggy head.

"You need to promise me you'll start taking them again, Massimo." Worry is practically pouring from the screen, and it makes me uncomfortable. "You could be a danger to the people around you. I don't know when you went off them, but you could experience adverse effects up to weeks later. You could think you're fine, and then suddenly you're not."

Vivienne could be in danger. I had already been taking precautions by ensuring I don't fall asleep around her, making sure if we're together for long periods I'm behind a locked door more often than not. But this? I hadn't been aware of this.

I've been stupid. I've been letting my guard down more than I thought. I mentally berate myself for the rest of the call, immediately taking my medication after we say our goodbyes. Knowing that as early as tomorrow I'll start feeling like a zombie again already makes my bones ache, tempts me to give up. Just make her go. Remove her from your life and there won't be anyone to hurt.

But I can't.

Next I check in with work, idly monitoring the markets. I trade on autopilot—the numbers are good, even now, and I'm well-positioned. I can see how everything will unfold. What normally brings me satisfaction just bores me today, so I check in on the rest of my money.

I operate mostly under the radar to those who know of me. Most assume that I primarily deal in my casinos. I control every bookmaker on and off the streets, meaning all the money goes through me. It's a lucrative business. I don't take it all for myself, but let my men earn substantially too. I don't cut off heads for no reason, I stay in my lane, and most men assume that what I lack in emotion carries over to ambition.

But none of my business is a secret. Those who work with me know that I employ security guards in nuclear power plants across the country. I own other legitimate businesses—car dealerships, leasing companies, restaurants, a few production companies. Otherwise, I outsource my work to other groups, ones not as targeted by law enforcement, like motorcycle gangs.

Next thing I know, I'm halfway out the door. Work hasn't fully occupied my mind, not with that woman sleeping on my couch, and it seems I'm experiencing an intense urge to check on Vivienne. She's still asleep, sprawled out on my couch like a starfish, breathing slow and deep. Her cat darts up to me out of nowhere, scurrying up against my heels, and I can't close my bedroom door fast enough to keep it out.

Well, I could've broken its tail in half, but Vivienne wouldn't have liked that. The cat hops on my desk, staring at me unblinkingly. It does appear... less repulsive now that she got it different medicine. Its fur is less scraggly and it's put on some healthy weight. Its eyes are still eighty-five percent of its face, giving it this bedraggled, feral look, but I suppose I can allow it to stay today.

My phone buzzes with a call. Vittorio Graziano, a boss I work for, wants to know how his money is doing. Our conversation takes no longer than fifteen minutes. He doesn't understand a word I say about the markets, but he understands zeroes well enough. When the numbers are good, even he knows I only answer to them, not him. And as long as I win big for him, he has no reason to complain.

After that, there's no stopping me from returning to the living room. The rest of my work will just have to wait. She's been sleeping for a long time, longer than seems normal. If there's something wrong, I should be closer to her.

My phone buzzes. Again. It's Cora.

Massimo, why aren't you responding?

Not that different from everything else she's been sending me lately. She'll text me almost every other day now, asking how I am or why I'm not responding. It's been setting me on edge—I was used to once-a-year communication from her, not this.

She starts calling me.

My blood turns to stone. She doesn't call me.

My thumb hovers over the answer button. Something must have happened. She wouldn't call without a reason. But then Vivienne snuffles in her sleep, and I put my phone down. I lower myself to my spot on the floor, her dumb cat following me, right as she blinks herself awake.

Her face is somewhat lacking in color, and her eyes are bloodshot. Her hair is a mess but still soft and glossy. She has pillow creases imprinted into her cheek and a frown on her face, and suddenly I can't think about anything but how beautiful she is.

"Hi," she mumbles, her voice small. It's unlike her.

I don't respond.

"You don't need to think I'm fragile now, by the way. This has always sucked for me. But I get over the worst of it in a day or so. It's not a big deal. Plus, the medicine I'm on really helps. It makes the pain tolerable, but I still get really emotional for a week or two." Her laugh is a little self-deprecating. "The medicine doesn't help the hormones, unfortunately."

"I know." I spent an hour researching her condition. I know everything there is to know about it. Aside from how it feels to have it.

Agreeing seems to have been the wrong move. Her eyes lower in an uncharacteristically sheepish move. I immediately hate it. "Then why are you looking at me like that? It's not a—"

"Big deal? Yes, it is. It causes you pain. I'll be expecting a list from you of what you usually do to manage it. And you will not be missing any more of your medication."

She's quiet for a minute. "Can you give me some space? I want to try to get more rest."

The words are carefully constructed and a little empty, so I know that she'll get angry if I don't comply. She turns her back on me, curling in on herself. Soon, she starts breathing as if she's asleep again. Not one to stay where I'm unwanted, I leave her.

When I go back to her room, her cat doesn't follow me. Almost as if it knows I've done something to piss off its owner.

I've been staring at the markets, flipping unseeingly from screen to screen, when I sense movement. Vivienne stands in the doorway, wrapped in a blanket. Her hair is pulled into a spiky knot at the top of her head and her brows are scrunched.

"What the hell was that?"

I ignore her, standing so quickly that my knee jostles the desk. "Should you be up?"

"Why did you do that? Did you know that every man in my life has at one point told me that my cramps can't be that bad?"

"At least sit down on my bed first." She may think that was suggestive. "Or the floor."

"I've heard it all, you know. Oh, they're just cramps, every woman has to deal with them, they can't be that bad." She scoffs. "It's always the same shit. And you just... didn't dismiss them? For what fucking reason? And did you just tell me to sit on the floor? My uterus is trying to turn itself inside out, I'm not fucking doing that."

She flounces—the best she can, with that blanket engulfing her—to the bed and sits with a huff. But despite her best attempts, she's lacking her usual snark. Her lips are pursed too tight, like she's warding off emotion, and she still looks so tired.

"Are you upset at me because I... validated your feelings?"

She tenses, but she doesn't say anything. If I tried to make sense of this any harder, my head would start pounding.

Just when I thought I was starting to get a grasp on this emotions thing.

"What kind of pain management have you tried? Have you looked into dietary changes that help with the pain? Acupuncture or massages—have you tried that? Painkillers, physiotherapy, and I'm assuming you are on a form of hormonal contraception—"

"Oh my God." Her eyes are wide. "If I looked at your Google search history right now, I'm scared what I would find. What can I do to get you to stop? Write you the list? I'll write you the list."

"See that you do." She doesn't want to talk about this anymore, which is fine. For now. "We'll revisit this once you're feeling better."

"We won't," she snips. "Now it's my turn for questions. I couldn't resist anymore, and I did it. I Googled you."

I watch her get comfortable on my bed. She refuses to sit in it normally, with the pillows at her back. Instead she curls up in the middle of it like a cat.

"I didn't find much. Just really vague things about casinos. Not even a picture of your face. According to Google, you're this mysterious rich person. Who are you really, Massimo?" 

"Why do you want to know?"

She pulls the blanket closer, all rumpled, blinking sleepily. She looks younger like that, more open. Like her guard is lowered because she doesn't feel well. "Because you fascinate me. I want to know what you do in here for hours." She yawns into the blanket. "Like, how does an errand boy for the mafia operate solely from his computer?"

I narrow my eyes at her, but she's grinning too self-satisfactorily to notice.

"I'm a Capo," I tell her. "Caporegime. It means captain. I'm in charge of a crew of soldiers and associates."

"Mmm," she hums, "so you're not a boss. Dammit. I was hoping I'd managed to hook the top guy."

This must be what she calls humor.

At my lack of response, she laughs into the blanket. It makes my muscles loosen. I hadn't realized they were tense. She seems to be mostly drowsy, not in pain, and I let myself focus more on the conversation.

"Do you do that often—what you did to that soldier who kidnapped me from the hotel?"

"Kill people, you mean."

"Kill your own guys," she corrects. "I'm assuming you kill plenty of people."

The way she says it sticks in my head, like I'm a loose cannon and I enjoy it.

"No more questions."

She sets her jaw, irritated. "Fine."

For some reason, that irks me. "Don't expect me to respond favorably to those kinds of questions. I'm not interested in becoming a spectacle to you." Shaking my head, I turn away from her. "Get out, Vivienne. I'm working."

"Don't read shit into my words that hasn't ever been there before, Massimo," she responds in a detached tone. 

I return to my work, but she doesn't leave. Unable to focus, I just stare at my screen, not caring to even pretend to be busy. I expect her temper to flare, to hear the rustling sound of her leaving. For some reason, every one of my muscles is tensed in anticipation of what she'll do.

"Have you ever seen Rembrandt's paintings? It's fascinating, the way he rendered faces." She sounds soft, a quarter of the way asleep. And it's the very last thing I was expecting. "When you're in the presence of one of his paintings, you feel like you're really seeing someone. All their warts, wounds, and wrinkles. Some of Rembrandt's subjects were old men and women, unremarkable people. You wouldn't have looked at them twice if you saw them on the street. But the way he painted them, it's like you're peering into their depths, seeing their inner dignity and all the complexities of their inner life. It's one of the most beautiful feelings, looking at a Rembrandt painting. I always think of the gentleness he must've viewed his subjects with to paint them in such a way. How tenderly he saw people. It almost jolts you into seeing people the same way."

At some point, I turn back around. Her eyes are closed, her voice thick with sleep, and minutes trickle slowly by as she drifts off, right there. It makes me feel odd. It's like she wanted to be closer to me.

Vivienne doesn't seem remarkably interested in what I do, the specifics of it. She's had many opportunities to ask, and she hasn't. She doesn't see the businessman, the racketeer, the prince of Chicago. I'm not sure what exactly she sees. She reminds me of the worst parts of myself and then almost makes me believe that she sees me the way she sees everyone else, almost in the same breath.

I've seen it, the way she looks around and despite everything, sees people in warm, illuminating ways. Yet she covers the softness with a stubborn toughness that almost makes a joke out of it all. So just in case someone decides not to take her seriously, she can say she never even tried.

I'll just sit next to her for a second.

I prop myself against the headboard, maintaining distance between us. My computer emits a familiar noise—it means one of the markets have opened—but I don't look away from her. She sleeps so peacefully. I wonder what that's like.

I make a promise to myself that I'll sit here for five minutes.

She still smells so sweet, and it makes my skin prickle with heat. Only weeks ago I would've wrinkled my nose, disgusted at how overwhelming it is, just like the rest of her. 

When I open my eyes, my throat is dry and my eyes hurt. The room is dark, the sun long gone, and my body aches as I sit up. All the evidence points to me having been asleep for hours. It's the longest I've slept in years, so it takes me a while to realize Vivienne is gone.

I check every room, but she's not there. She's not next door and she's not at work—her manager confirms when I call. Belatedly, I check the security cameras, kicking myself for not doing so initially. I'm not thinking right. Something is wrong.

But a bug seems to have overtaken the system and none of my cameras are working.

Vivienne is gone.

♛ 

Please excuse any poor flow or mistakes! I'm too tired to edit this but wanna give y'all this chapter while it's still Monday. Thank you for reading. Next one is gonna be fun.

P.S. My Inkitt is in the link in my bio, I haven't started updating there yet but in case anything happens to Wattpad, that's where my books will be!

- G