I was chaos myself, more than you could ever know. For as good an actor as I was, I was a better pianist. The blacks in my world were bolder than you assumed, so intense that the white I tried to paint over it could barely shade a grey. But I felt more vibrant when I was with you—when I kissed you, or even just thought of it. And now, I was afraid of getting addicted to the luxury of you—a luxury I couldn't afford.

My childhood was a stage set for a role I never wanted. My father, the Don, ruled the family with an iron hand, cold and unflinching. I grew up in the shadow of his empire, the whispers of power and danger seeping into every corner of my life. From the day I could understand words, I knew that the man I called father was feared more than loved. I was raised not just to inherit wealth but to command it with ruthless authority.

My mother, on the other hand, was nothing more than a chandelier in our grand mansion—beautiful, delicate, but lifeless. She sparkled in the light of high society, adorned in the finest silks and jewels, but inside, she was hollow. She existed as an ornament rather than a person, just a fine symbol of grandeur. Emotions? Decisions? They were luxuries she had long surrendered. She was more comfortable playing her part, smiling for cameras, whispering empty pleasantries at lavish dinners, while my father made the real decisions, the ones that mattered in the shadows.

I was raised by nannies and bodyguards more than I was by my mother. And eventually I grew used to the absence of her warmth, the detachment masked by her beauty. She looked at me as if I were just another fine piece of furniture in the mansion alongside her—polished and perfect, but without real substance.

Tutors came and went, drilling into me not only the usual curriculum but also the art of deception, the language of power. I learned to speak in codes, hold a rifle, play the part of the obedient son in public, while behind the curtains, I saw the blood, the betrayals, the violence that fueled our world.

Music was my only escape. The piano became my sanctuary, the one place where I could control the chaos. My fingers would dance across the keys, and for those moments, I could create something beautiful in a world that was anything but. I became a master, not because I loved the piano, but because it was the only thing that wasn't touched by the darkness of my family's legacy. The blacks and whites of the keys were the only place where I could paint a version of colourful life that I longed for. A life that made sense to me. But I was never allowed to forget who I was. There were always reminders—subtle and not-so-subtle—that I was destined for the same path as my father.

I never intended to feel anything beyond the keys, more than to let the sounds stretch beyond the sheet music. The piano had always been my refuge, the place where I could pour out my soul in shades of ivory and ebony, safe in the confines of my own creation. But then, every time I sat down, every time my fingers touched the cool, familiar surface, I felt you.

I still remembered the first time I saw you in that café, how you moved through the space like a storm contained in a teacup. If I called you a beautiful mess, would that have offended you? Because you were. Eyes all over me, you held back your words, but your gestures spoke volumes.

You were the one who made me realise that the notes could feel more than what I'd written, that the music could linger long after the sound had faded. Every twist, every leap, every pause was a conversation, a language we both spoke but never dared to name. You made the music breathe, live, in a way I never could on my own.

Things started innocently enough, just a simple coffee run on my first day in Ravenwood. I'd moved for university, a fresh start, and the first thing I wanted to do was take a walk around. I'd planned to explore a bit, get a feel for the area, but that morning, the skies opened up, and rain began to pour. It wasn't going to stop me, though. I grabbed my umbrella and slipped into the dark blue coat Mum had gifted me before I left home. With the umbrella shielding me from the worst of the downpour, I stepped out into the rain, determined to make the most of my first day in this new place.

Ravenwood was the sort of neighbourhood that felt like stepping into a different era. Cobblestone paths wound between rows of Victorian-style houses, their façades adorned with intricate woodwork and ivy creeping up the walls. Small puddles splashed under my boots as I walked along the streets lined up with trees and historic buildings that whispered stories of a bygone time.

This was the kind of place where you might find a street musician strumming a guitar or a local artist displaying their work on a makeshift easel. But sadly, it was raining that morning, so no one was about, except for a few determined souls like me, who had their reasons for braving the weather.

The only good my walk did me that day was stumbling upon a small café just a few blocks from my flat. It was the kind of place that felt like a secret, with ivy climbing the brick walls and a doorbell that chimed softly as you walked in. The air inside was warm, always carrying the comforting aroma of freshly ground coffee beans and something sweet baking in the back.

You were behind the counter that day, wearing a dark apron over a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal the edges of a fading tattoo on your forearm. I remember how your eyes, a warm hazel, met mine when you asked for my order. It was like you were seeing straight through me, reading every nervous thought I had about being in a new place. I stammered something about black coffee, and you smiled—just a small, almost shy curve of your lips that sent butterflies straight to my stomach.

The black coffee was good, and the avocado toast was better, but it was you that brought me back the next day. And the day after that. Soon, it became a routine. Every morning, no matter the weather—whether the sky was a crisp autumn blue or heavy with the promise of rain—I found myself in that café, sitting by the window, pretending to be absorbed in my books while stealing glances at you whenever I thought you weren't looking.

But I knew you were watching me too. I could feel it—the way your gaze would linger on me as you wiped down the counter, or how your hand would brush mine ever so slightly when you handed me my coffee. Those small moments, they lit a fire inside me, one I wasn't sure how to handle. Was it all in my head? Were you just being friendly? Or was there something more in the way your eyes would brighten when I walked through the door?

You weren't the most graceful person I had ever met, but you were the most chaotically beautiful. You'd often dash around the café, arms full of pastries and orders, and I'd catch you balancing on one foot while you sorted out the register. Your hair might be slightly tousled from the morning rush, and you'd have a smudge of flour on your cheek. The scattered coffee grounds on the counter, the way you'd momentarily lose track of a stray tea towel, and the occasional laugh you shared with a customer—all of it created a mosaic of delightful disorder that made the café feel uniquely yours.

I tried to keep it casual, act like it was nothing, but it was impossible to ignore how my heart sped up whenever you were near. The rainiest of mornings became my favourites, the way the drops would blur the world outside the café windows, leaving just us in our own little bubble of warmth and stolen glances.

I took on a habit of savoring the way your smile made the room feel a little brighter—the touch of hazel in your eyes reminded me of the golden leaves scattered under an autumn sky, lit by a warm, fleeting sun that seemed rarer with each passing day. 

Those thoughts took root, in a way I knew it was going to be so hard to uproot them one day. So I kept them to myself. Who was I to assume that you felt the same? Maybe you were just doing your job, being kind to the new customer who couldn't get enough of your coffee and toast. Maybe the looks we shared were nothing more than fleeting moments of connection in a world full of them.

Yet, every time I saw you, I couldn't shake the feeling that there was something more, something in the way your gaze would soften when it met mine, or how your smile seemed to hold a secret meant just for me. It was a game of possibilities, of what-ifs that danced in my mind late at night as I lay in bed, listening to the crickets out of my window after the rain.

But I kept coming back, day after day. I thought, maybe one day, I'd find the courage to ask you about the things left unsaid between us. Like your name or where you were from. What your favourite hobby was, or if you liked the dawn. Whether your heart raced like mine when we locked eyes, or if your pulse quickened whenever our hands brushed, or if you felt the same pull that I did.

Then, one morning, something changed. I woke up with the familiar anticipation, the kind that made my heart quicken at the thought of our next encounter. Outside the window, the rain poured down harder than ever, a relentless grey. I could have braved it, of course, but something held me back. And I should've taken it as a sign.  

Someone knocked on my door that morning. Someone that I didn't want to see in my new life.

"So, Swan, how's it going? I heard you started at a new university and play piano full time?" Mark's voice echoed through the apartment, overpowering the noise of rain drumming on my windows. He sat on the couch across from me, a smirk playing on his lips, framed by a thick beard. His long black curls, untamed and dishevelled, framed a tanned face covered in tattoos and piercings. He had a look that seemed to age him beyond his years.

He looked so much like the past I left behind—in dire need of a haircut and a bath, not another hit of cocaine. He was a living reminder of everything I had tried to escape, but here he was, bringing that darkness back into my carefully constructed new life in Ravenwood.

"I clearly informed Mr. Lombardy that our deal is over. I didn't want to see anyone anymore." My voice wavered as I spoke, betraying the steady calm I was trying so hard to maintain. Mark's smirk only deepened.

"It's about your last job, Swan," Mark said, his tone shifting from casual to serious in an instant. "Something's happened, and Mr. Lombardy expects to see you."

The words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. I closed my eyes, feeling the weight of his words settle deep in my chest. Of course, it hadn't ended cleanly. Nothing in that world ever did. I had tried to pretend, to believe that I could walk away and start over, but deep down, I knew it was never that simple.

I could feel my heart racing, the memories of that last job flooding back—the tension, the fear, the desperate hope that it would be the final time I'd ever have to do something like that. I'd walked away, thinking it was over, that I could finally breathe free.

"And what if I don't come?" I asked, forcing the question past the tightness in my throat. I knew the answer before he even spoke, but I needed to hear it, needed to know just how deep I was still in.

Mark's eyes darkened, the smirk fading as he leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, a predator preparing to strike. "You know how this works, Swan. You can't just walk away. Lombardy doesn't like loose ends, and you, my friend, are one big loose end."

He paused, his gaze sharpening as he watched me carefully. "You've had a good run, playing the good boy, the innocent pianist if you may. But you belong to our world. We all do. You think you can just hide away here, play your little tunes, and forget who you really are? You're dreaming."

The weight of his words pressed down on me, but I refused to buckle. I had built this new life, brick by brick, note by note, and I wasn't about to let it crumble so easily. "I won't be coming back. I'm done being fooled by you, by Lombardy, by all of it."

Mark's expression turned cold, the dangerous edge in his eyes becoming more pronounced. He stood up slowly, taking his time as he stepped closer, his towering figure casting a shadow over me. "Sh... sh... sh... you're too noisy for a pianist," he murmured, his voice a low growl, a warning wrapped in silk.

I squared my shoulders, stepping into his space, close enough to feel the heat of his breath. My heart was pounding, adrenaline surging through my veins, but I held my ground, meeting his gaze with unwavering defiance. "But I bet I'm quiet enough for a sniper. Don't tempt me," I shot back, my voice dripping with the same venom he'd tried to use on me.

Mark's eyes narrowed, a flicker of something unreadable passing through them before he straightened, taking a step back. For a moment, neither of us moved, the storm outside matching the one inside my apartment, both relentless and unforgiving.

I leaned in, letting him see the steel in my eyes, the resolve he couldn't shake. "Go tell father if he wants to drag me back, he'll have to do it himself. Sending in his lap dog to collect me doesn't work anymore."

Finally, he broke the silence, his voice laced with dark amusement. "You've got guts, I'll give you that. But don't think for a second that this is over. You might think you're out, but you're still in the game, whether you like it or not."

He turned and walked towards the door, but before he left, he paused, glancing back at me. "Remember, Swan, there's no such thing as walking away clean. Sooner or later, it all comes back."

With that, he was gone, leaving me alone in the silence that followed. I stared at the door for a long moment, my hands trembling slightly. I clenched them into fists, grounding myself in the reality I had chosen. Sooner or later, it would all come back.

Maybe that's why a rainstorm came that day. Maybe I wasn't supposed to get comfortable in my new life. I wasn't supposed to let you see me, see the darkness I carried. I didn't know if you'd even care, but the life I was trying to leave behind wasn't letting me go, and it was getting harder to keep the past buried beneath the surface.

I thought of you again, of the way your eyes lit up when you saw me walk through the door of the café. I thought of the way I felt when you smiled, like maybe, just maybe, I could be someone different, someone better. But how could I ever let you in, let you see the real me, when my past was this dark, this dangerous?