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CHAPTER NINE

Ava

Sunlight spills across Stefano's sheets. I stretch, noting sensations with the automatic precision my parents drilled into me. The silk against my skin, the lingering ache in my muscles from last night, the weight of Stefano's arm draped possessively across my waist.

Three weeks in this bed, and I still can't quite believe I'm here.

I turn my head carefully, studying his sleeping face. He looks younger like this, the sharp edges of power and control softened by sleep.

A lock of dark hair falls across his forehead, and my fingers itch to brush it back. I don't.

Can't risk waking him, can't let myself get any more tangled in this man than I already am.

But God, he's beautiful. Not in that polished, manufactured way most powerful men cultivate, but in the raw, dangerous way of predators. Even in sleep, his body radiates that contained energy that first drew me in.

That still draws me in, if I'm being honest with myself.

Which I'm not. Can't be. Not when everything about this situation is built on lies.

The morning light catches on his tattoos. I've memorized every line, every shadow. Not because I want to, but because that's what I was trained to do. Notice everything. Remember everything. Use everything.

The thought sits heavy in my chest, mixing with guilt and something else I refuse to name.

He shifts slightly, arm tightening around my waist, and I freeze. But his breathing stays deep and even.

Still asleep. Still trusting me completely.

The city is already humming with morning traffic. My world and his, separated by glass and wealth and choices I never wanted to make.

Somewhere out there, the Fioris are waiting for intel I can't bring myself to provide, one way or another.

I allow myself two more minutes of watching him sleep.

That's my rule lately—strict time limits on any behavior that feels too real, too dangerous.

Like how I only let myself kiss him first when we're alone, or how I count backward from sixty whenever he looks at me with that intensity that makes me forget why I'm here.

Two minutes. One hundred and twenty seconds of pretending this could be my life.

The heat of his body next to mine is familiar now, which is exactly the kind of thought that should send me running.

"You think too loud," Stefano mumbles, voice rough with sleep, his eyes still closed.

"Just planning my day," I lie, the words coming out naturally.

His eyes open. They are that startling blue that never fails to catch me off guard. "Anything interesting planned?"

"Oh, you know. The usual. Dancing. Making money.” Stefano was adamant that I don’t need to work at the club anymore, but quitting my job was out of the question—the Fioris expect me to be there, like planned. Besides, I’m supposed to be saving money by moving in with him.

“Maybe planning my great escape to Montana." I keep my tone light, teasing, like it's all just a fun fantasy rather than the desperate plan it really is.

"Mmm." His hand slides up my side, leaving heat in its wake. "Still determined to become a cowgirl?"

The gentle mockery in his voice makes me smile despite myself. It's these moments that are the most dangerous—when he's soft and playful and so different from the ruthless boss everyone else sees.

These are glimpses of the boy he used to be before Chicago's underworld forced him to become something else.

"Maybe I just like the idea of wide-open spaces," I say, avoiding his eyes. "No complications. No history. Just...freedom."

His arm tightens around my waist, and something dark flashes across his face. It’s there and gone so quickly I might have imagined it.

"Freedom's overrated," he murmurs, nuzzling my neck. "Sometimes the best things in life are the ones that tie us down."

The words send a shiver down my spine—half desire, half warning. He has no idea how right he is or how tangled up in him I'm becoming. Each day makes it harder to remember that this isn't real.

"Let me give you something else to think about," he whispers, and God help me, but I let him.

* * *

Later, dressed in one of Stefano's silk robes, I stand at the window nursing a coffee and facing facts. Three weeks of careful observation, and I've got nothing to report to the Fioris. Nothing real, anyway.

The Silk Rose is exactly what it appears to be. The books are clean, I’ve checked multiple times.

The security is professional but not excessive. The girls are protected, respected, and paid well. Even the alcohol deliveries come from proper distributors with perfect paperwork.

Stefano has mentioned that the club is the perfect cover, but I haven’t come across anything incriminating yet.

My coffee has gone cold while I've been lost in thought. Just like my leads.

I befriended the staff, I memorized delivery schedules, I studied the camera layouts and security rotations. I even sweet-talked the accountant during our smoke breaks.

And the only thing I found is a man who pays above market rate, provides health insurance, and security escorts home the staff after late shifts. He’s a boss who banned a wealthy regular last week for getting handsy with one of the new girls.

The memory makes me smile despite myself. Stefano had been terrifying that night, all cold fury and lethal grace as he personally threw the guy out. But it was what he did after that really got me.

He'd made sure the girl was okay, offered her the night off with pay, and then had his lawyer draw up restraining order paperwork right there.

"Dammit," I mutter, pressing my forehead against the cool glass. This would be so much easier if he was the monster everyone thinks he is.

But he's not.

He’s running legitimate businesses alongside the less legitimate ones. He’s creating safe spaces in a world that offers precious few of them.

The truth hits me like a punch to the gut: I can't do this to him.

I can't fabricate evidence that might bring down one of the few safe harbors in Chicago's underworld. I can't betray someone who's shown more genuine care for others than any “legitimate” businessman I've ever conned.

But if I don't give the Fioris something soon...

My regular phone buzzes with a text from Kira asking if I'm working tonight. Sweet, funny Kira who's become a real friend—as real as the circumstances allow.

More than anyone else, she tries to hang out with me outside of work, but there’s always an excuse at the tip of my tongue. She’s just another person I'll have to leave behind when this all goes sideways.

Because it will go sideways. That's the thing about cons—they always end.

I slip into the bedroom to get dressed, my movements silent from years of practice.

Stefano's in his home office now, handling whatever business keeps Chicago's underworld running smoothly. I can hear his muffled voice through the walls. He’s saying something about dock schedules and security rotations.

The sound makes my chest tight. He trusts me enough to let me overhear these conversations. Trusts me in his home, his bed, his life.

And I'm about to prove exactly why he shouldn't.

My fingers hover over the keypad of my burner phone. What exactly am I planning to say?

Sorry, your intel was wrong. The club's clean. Please give me my payout anyway?

The Fioris don't work that way. They'll want something for their investment in me.

But maybe I can give them just enough to satisfy them without destroying everything Stefano's built.

I type out a message.

Need to meet. Have information about Wednesday deliveries.

It's not exactly a lie. There are deliveries every Wednesday—completely legitimate alcohol shipments that keep the club running. The Fioris don't need to know that part.

I just need them to think I'm delivering on our deal.

Buy time.

That's what my mother always said—when a con goes sideways, buy time and look for exits.

The response comes faster than I expected.

Usual place. One hour.

My heart pounds against my ribs. One hour.

Sixty minutes to figure out how to play this without getting anyone killed. Without losing everything.

Including Stefano? a traitorous voice whispers in my head.

I push the thought away, focusing on logistics. I'll need an excuse to leave the penthouse. Something that won't make Stefano suspicious. Something that...

The bathroom door has never looked so inviting.

I barely make it in time.

The nausea hits like a tidal wave—sudden, violent, and completely unavoidable.

One moment, I'm planning my meet with the Fioris, the next, I'm on my knees in Stefano's ridiculously expensive bathroom, reacquainting myself with this morning's coffee.

The marble floor is cold against my legs as I grip the toilet bowl, my knuckles white.

"This isn't happening," I mutter between heaves. "This can't be happening."

I rest my forehead against the cool porcelain, trying to steady my breathing, thinking of all those first nights with Stefano, when we were too caught up in each other to think about protection.

The bathroom's subtle floral scent, usually so pleasant, now makes my stomach roll threateningly.

"Fuck," I whisper. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

My whole body trembles as I push myself up, legs unsteady as I make my way to the sink. The woman in the mirror looks like a stranger—pale face, wide eyes, absolute terror barely contained.

Think , I order myself, splashing cold water on my face. Think like a professional.

But for once, my training fails me. There's no con artist manual for this situation. There’s no chapter on what to do when you're pregnant with your mark's baby while working for people who might want him dead.

The Fioris. My hand flies to my still-flat stomach.

I slide down the bathroom wall, drawing my knees to my chest. The cold marble grounds me as I try to think past the panic clawing at my throat.

The meeting is in less than an hour. I should be figuring out what to tell them, how to play this to keep everyone safe.

Instead, all I can think about is a baby with Stefano's blue eyes and my dark hair. A child born into this world of shadows and secrets. Born into a life I swore I'd never pass on to another generation.

My phone buzzes in my pocket—the regular one, not the burner. It’s another text from Kira.

You ok for tonight's shift? New routine rehearsal at 6.

I haul myself up, legs steadier now. The nausea has subsided to a dull roil, manageable if I breathe carefully.

In the mirror, I watch my face transform, color returning, fear carefully masked, walls rebuilding. The scared woman disappears, replaced by the professional I was trained to be.

But my hand stays on my stomach, a silent promise to the future I never planned.

I need more time.

My hand reaches for the burner phone once more and I type a convincing excuse for postponing the meet. It takes a full minute before I get a response, but they accept the change.

Relieved, I take one step toward the door, and that's when the second wave hits—this one stronger than the first, a violent reminder that my body isn't my own anymore.

The room spins, marble tiles sliding in and out of focus as I stumble.

My knees buckle. I try to catch myself on the counter, but my fingers slip against the polished surface. The floor rushes up to meet me, and I barely manage to turn my head before everything in my stomach makes a reappearance.

Get up , I tell myself. Get up before he hears.

But my body has other plans. The cool marble presses against my cheek as another wave of nausea rolls through me. My hair falls around my face like a dark curtain, and I can't even find the strength to push it back.

Somewhere in the penthouse, a door opens. Footsteps approach.

But I can't move. Can't think. I can only press my burning face against the cold marble and pray for the room to stop spinning.