Ezra's POV
The camera shutter clicks three times before I realize I've made a terrible mistake.
I shouldn't be here. The warehouse crouches in the darkness like a sleeping monster, all broken windows and rusted metal. My photography professor wanted pictures of urban economic decay in gang-controlled neighborhoods for my thesis presentation. I thought an abandoned building would be perfect.
I was wrong.
Voices echo from inside—low, angry, speaking Italian. My finger freezes on the camera button. Every instinct screams at me to run, but my legs won't move. I'm a twenty-four-year-old grad student who gets nervous ordering coffee. I'm not built for danger.
The smart thing would be leaving. Right now. But I've already climbed through a gap in the fence and walked halfway across the empty lot. My student loans won't pay themselves, and I need this project to graduate. Just a few quick shots of the interior, then I'm gone.
I slip through a rusted door, camera clutched to my chest. The warehouse floor is covered in broken glass and old crates. Perfect. I raise my camera and adjust the lens, focusing on the decay, the shadows, the way moonlight streams through holes in the roof.
That's when I see them.
Four men stand in a circle of light from a single hanging bulb. Three of them wear dark suits that look expensive even from here. The fourth man kneels on the concrete floor, hands zip-tied behind his back, head bowed.
My breath catches. I should leave. I should run. Instead, I duck behind a stack of old shipping containers, heart hammering so hard I'm sure they can hear it.
Please, the kneeling man begs. I didn't tell them anything. I swear on my mother's grave
Your mother died twenty years ago, Tony. The voice is smooth, educated, and completely calm. And we both know you've been talking to the Zanetti family about our shipment schedules.
I peek around the container's edge. The speaker steps into the light, and my stomach drops.
He's younger than the others, maybe late twenties, with dark hair styled perfectly despite the warehouse setting. His suit probably costs more than my entire year's rent. But it's his face that makes my fingers tighten on the camera. Sharp cheekbones, cold eyes, and an expression of absolute control.
I know that face. I've seen it in my research files.
Marco Vitale. Heir to Chicago's most powerful crime family.
I have a kid! Tony's voice cracks. Please, Mr. Vitale, I have a little girl
Then you should have thought about her before you betrayed us. Marco pulls a gun from inside his jacket with the casual ease of someone grabbing their phone.
This isn't happening. This can't be happening.
The gun rises. Tony starts crying, babbling apologies and promises. Marco's expression doesn't change at all.
Two shots crack through the air. Tony's body jerks, then collapses.
I clamp my hand over my mouth to trap the scream trying to escape. My camera slips, and I grab it desperately before it falls. Blood pools around Tony's head, black in the dim light.
Clean it up, Marco says, tucking the gun away like he's finished a boring task. Make sure the body disappears properly this time. I don't want another situation like last month.
The other men move immediately, dragging Tony's corpse toward a tarp. I can't breathe. Can't think. Can't do anything except press myself against the cold metal container and pray they don't notice me.
I need to leave. Now.
I turn carefully, testing each footstep for noise. The exit is maybe fifty feet away. I can make it. I just need to
My camera strap catches on a piece of jagged metal sticking out from the container.
The sound of tearing fabric is impossibly loud.
What was that? one of the men barks.
I yank the strap free and run.
Someone's here!
Heavy footsteps pound behind me. I sprint toward the door, lungs burning, legs shaking. Almost there. Almost
A hand like iron grabs my jacket and slams me against the wall so hard my vision blurs. The camera flies from my hands, clattering across the concrete. A gun barrel presses against my temple, cold and absolute.
Who the fuck are you? The man holding me is massive, with a scar running down his jaw and eyes that promise violence. Who sent you?
Nobody! The word comes out as a squeak. I'm nobody! I'm just a student. I didn't see anything. Please
He saw everything, Dante. Marco's voice cuts through my panic like a knife. He was watching the whole time.
Footsteps approach. Slow. Deliberate. Each one feels like a countdown to my death.
Marco stops in front of me. Up close, he's even more terrifying. Blood spatters his white shirt collar. His dark eyes study me with the same detached interest he showed Tony right before pulling the trigger.
What's your name? His voice is quiet, almost gentle. Somehow that's worse than shouting.
E-Ezra. Ezra Chen. I can barely speak around the gun at my head. I'm a grad student at Northwestern. I was just taking pictures for a project. I swear I won't tell anyone what I saw. Please don't kill me.
You witnessed a murder. Marco tilts his head slightly. Everyone who witnesses our business dies, Ezra. It's policy. Nothing personal.
Tears burn my eyes. I'm going to die in an abandoned warehouse, and nobody will even know what happened. My parents will think I just disappeared. Jordan will blame themselves for not calling me tonight.
Marco reaches out and touches my face, gentle, almost tender. His fingers come away wet with my tears.
Then something shifts in his expression. Some calculation happens behind those cold eyes.
Actually, Marco says slowly, there might be another option.
The gun at my temple presses harder. Boss? Dante sounds confused.
Marco's lips curve into something that might be a smile if smiles could be dangerous.
He's mine.
The words make no sense. I stare at him, waiting for the bullet, waiting for death.
Marco's hand cups my jaw, forcing me to meet his eyes.
My secret lover. The one I've been hiding from my family. His thumb brushes my cheekbone. Isn't that right, caro?
The warehouse spins. This can't be real.
But the gun is real. The dead body twenty feet away is real. And the choice in Marco Vitale's eyes is brutally clear:
Play along, or die.
My mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.
Yes, I whisper, the lie tasting like survival.
Marco smiles, truly smiles this time, and it's the most terrifying thing I've ever seen.
Good boy.