The next few days passed in a haze of confusion and carefully avoided glances. Justin was everywhere and nowhere—always a few rooms away, but never far from my thoughts. The mansion felt less like a prison and more like a liminal space where reality had been suspended and only memories and unspoken words filled the air.
We didn't talk about the kiss.
Not directly.
But the way he looked at me when I entered a room, like he was still tasting the memory of my lips, made it impossible to forget.
Meals were quieter. The tension between us had changed—not the electric, dangerous kind we had when I first got here, but something more fragile… like a truce. Or maybe the calm before another storm.
On the third day, I wandered into the library.
It was enormous, two floors of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, a spiral staircase, and a grand window that bathed the room in golden light. I ran my fingers along the spines—most of them old and heavy, the kind of books that probably hadn't been opened in decades.
"You always did like quiet places."
I turned.
Justin was leaning in the doorway, a black button-down half rolled at the sleeves, one hand in his pocket. He looked less dangerous here. Almost… human.
"I needed space," I said, brushing my hand over a dusty novel.
"I figured." He walked in slowly, stopping near the fireplace. "But I can't pretend this house doesn't feel different when you're not around."
I looked at him, wary. "What are we doing, Justin? Playing house until your real world knocks down the door?"
He met my gaze, his eyes dark and unreadable. "I'm trying to give you something real in the middle of the mess. It's all I can offer."
I exhaled sharply and crossed my arms. "You can't keep me in this place forever."
"I don't want to." He stepped closer, stopping a few feet away. "But I do want you to stay until you've made your choice. One that isn't fueled by fear or anger."
"And what if I choose to walk away?" I asked.
He didn't flinch. "Then I'll let you go."
It was the first time he'd said that.
No threats. No manipulation.
Just… a promise.
I turned away, unsure of how to respond. My fingers closed around the edge of a bookshelf for balance.
"I don't know how to live in your world, Justin."
"You don't have to," he said. "You just have to let me show you mine. One step at a time."
I felt him come up behind me, not touching, but close enough that I could feel his breath stir the hairs on my neck.
"Let me take you somewhere tomorrow," he said quietly. "Just you and me. No guards. No shadows. Just… us."
I turned, startled. "You're serious?"
His expression softened. "I've never been more."
A beat passed.
"Okay," I said, surprising even myself. "One day."
His smile was small, but real. "Then it's a date."
And for the first time since I stepped into this twisted fairytale of a mansion, I felt something that resembled hope.
But deep down, I knew—nothing was ever just a date with a man like Justin.
The next morning, as promised he took me somewhere.
It was a beach.
We talked about everything there and by the time we got back to his house i felt a weight had been lifted off me.
Slowly i began to see the old Justin back.
One evening i was asking him questions and i asked if he still played basketball.
"Of course I do, basketball is my life," Justin said with an exaggerated flourish, placing a hand on his heart like he was making a dramatic declaration.
I laughed, really laughed, the kind that shook something loose inside me. "You mean it was your life. You haven't touched a court in years, have you?"
He raised an eyebrow, leaning back in his chair with that signature smirk. "Is that a challenge, McKenzie?"
"It might be," I teased. "Unless you're scared you'll embarrass yourself in front of me."
"Scared?" he scoffed. "Sweetheart, the only thing I'm scared of is letting you beat me."
"Big words," I said, tilting my head. "Can you back them up?"
His eyes gleamed with mischief. "We'll find out tomorrow. There's a court on the property. Full-size, private, just how I like it."
Of course there was. Mafia kingpin with a secret soft spot for basketball? Seemed fitting.
The next morning, I woke up to find a note slipped under my door in Justin's sharp, unmistakable handwriting:
> Game on at 10. Wear something you can lose in.
Cocky bastard.
I showed up at the court dressed in black leggings and a simple tank top, hair tied up in a messy bun. Justin was already there, spinning a basketball on his finger, wearing black shorts and a sleeveless tee that showed off more muscle than I was prepared for. I paused for a second, trying not to let my face betray how unfairly good he looked.
"You're late," he said, tossing me the ball with a grin.
"I'm fashionable," I replied, catching it easily. "And besides, I had to mentally prepare for the humiliation you're about to endure."
He laughed, and for a moment, he looked like the boy I fell in love with at seventeen—the boy who stayed after school just to play one more round of HORSE, who'd steal kisses under the bleachers and call it "team motivation."
We warmed up in silence, the sound of bouncing rubber echoing off the court walls. The game started casual, playful—trash talk, light fouls, laughter when one of us missed an easy shot. But then the competitive streak kicked in.
"Eleven points," he said, "ones and twos. First to win by two."
"You're on."
The game was intense. Justin was good. Still fast, still precise, but I wasn't rusty either. Years of pick-up games at college hadn't gone to waste.
I stole the ball on his second possession, sprinted toward the basket, and laid it in with ease.
"Okay, okay," he muttered. "Didn't know I was playing against the MVP."
"Better recognize," I said, grinning.
We were tied at nine when things got messy—bodies crashing into each other, sweat and laughter mixing in the spring sun. He blocked one of my shots and grabbed the rebound, only for me to lunge forward and nearly knock him over trying to steal it back. We both stumbled, tumbling onto the court floor, laughing like idiots.
His chest rose and fell beneath me, his laughter softening into a kind of breathless stillness as our eyes met.
I froze.
So did he.
We were nose to nose, his hands instinctively on my waist, my fingers tangled in the collar of his shirt.
The laughter faded, but the warmth lingered—palms on skin, heartbeats thudding in sync.
And then, just like before, he leaned in.
The kiss was softer this time. No desperation, no fury—just heat and memory and something gentler blooming between us. Like we were rediscovering a language we used to speak fluently.
When we pulled away, I didn't move from his chest. He didn't let me.
"You're not so bad at this," he murmured, voice husky.
"I could say the same," I whispered back.
Later, we sat on the court floor, sharing a bottle of water, our legs brushing.
"Why didn't you tell me about the court sooner?" I asked.
He shrugged. "Didn't want you thinking I was showing off. Besides… I guess I was waiting for the right moment to feel like myself again."
I glanced at him. "And do you?"
He looked at me for a long moment, then nodded. "When I'm with you… yeah."
That night, after a long shower and fresh clothes, I found myself wandering the mansion halls again. But this time, I wasn't avoiding him.
I was looking for him.
I found him in the music room—one I hadn't noticed before—sitting at a grand piano, his fingers moving slowly across the keys. The melody was low and haunting, like a memory too heavy to carry but too precious to forget.
"You play piano now?" I asked from the doorway.
Justin turned slightly. "Picked it up a couple years ago. Helps me think."
"It's beautiful," I said, stepping inside.
He gestured for me to sit beside him on the bench. I hesitated only a second before I did.
"What were you playing?" I asked.
"Something I wrote," he admitted. "About someone I lost."
I looked at him, then back at the keys. "Do you ever think about what would've happened if none of this ever happened? If your dad hadn't died, if you hadn't been pulled into all of this?"
"All the time," he said softly. "But then I remember… even if life had been perfect, I still would've found a way to mess it up. Because I wasn't ready to love you the way you deserved back then."
"And now?"
He turned to face me fully, his hand reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear.
"Now?" he whispered. "Now, I'd burn down kingdoms to keep you safe."
My breath caught.
"And yet," I said, voice barely audible, "you're asking me to stay in a world that could burn me."
He looked away, jaw tight. "I know. And that's why I haven't asked you to stay. Not really. Not yet."
Silence settled between us.
"But I want to," he admitted. "More than anything."
We sat there until the candles burned low, and I left only when my heart began to ache with the weight of everything unsaid.
The next day, the quiet shattered.
It started with a phone call during breakfast. Justin's expression changed instantly. Cold. Dangerous. The man he had to be.
He stood abruptly, murmured something to one of his men, and walked out without a word.
I didn't see him for hours.
That night, when he returned, his knuckles were bloodied, his shirt rumpled. I was in the hallway when he came in. Our eyes met.
"Don't ask," he said, voice hoarse.
"I wasn't going to," I replied, even though my chest tightened.
He started to walk past me, then stopped. Turned. "Riya—"
"Don't," I said. "You can't kiss me like that, laugh with me, be with me… and then shut me out when it counts."
He looked like he wanted to argue. But then something in his expression softened.
"I'm trying," he said quietly. "But this world… it's never going to be soft. Not even for you."
"I don't need soft," I said, walking up to him, "but I need honesty. And I need to know I'm not falling for a ghost again."
He stepped forward, wrapped his arms around me, and pulled me close. "You're not," he whispered. "You're falling for the man who never stopped loving you. Even when I tried."
By the time it was 3 weeks.
I could say Justin and I were officially back together and he drove me home that day.
I invited him in, my house was a little dusty since I'd been gone for 3 weeks.
He stepped inside, looking around with that amused, thoughtful gaze of his—the one that made it feel like he saw more than just walls and furniture, like he was reading a piece of me in every photo frame and blanket on the couch.
"It's very… you," he said, walking further into the living room. "Warm. A little chaotic. But comforting."
I smirked. "Are you talking about my house or me?"
"Both," he said, flashing that smile that still made my knees feel a little unstable.
I threw my bag onto the couch and kicked off my shoes, suddenly aware of how quiet my house felt after three weeks of guarded halls and grand staircases. This place—small, slightly cluttered, entirely mine—was the one thing that had always felt safe.
Until now.
Now, everything felt different. Because he was standing in it.
"You want coffee?" I offered, moving toward the kitchen, mostly to give myself something to do with my hands.
"Sure," he said, watching me from the doorway like I might vanish if he blinked.
I moved around the kitchen in practiced motions, the hum of the coffee machine filling the silence between us.
Justin leaned on the counter, arms crossed, his voice low. "I never pictured myself in your kitchen again."
I glanced at him over my shoulder. "And yet, here you are. Mafia kingpin, notorious enforcer… accepting coffee in a chipped mug from his used to be ex-girl friend"
He chuckled. "Life's funny that way."
I handed him a cup, our fingers brushing. That small contact sent a jolt through me—still. After everything.
We sat at the kitchen table in silence for a moment, sipping coffee and pretending this was normal. That we were normal.
But Justin didn't do well with pretending for long.
"Riya," he said, setting his cup down. "I know this peace won't last forever. Not with the people I deal with. Not with the enemies I've made. But if there's even the smallest chance I can build something with you—really build it—I'll fight for that. No matter how dirty it gets."
I looked at him, heart thudding. "I'm not afraid of a fight. I'm just afraid of losing myself in your world."
"You won't," he promised. "Because I'll be there to pull you out if it ever tries to swallow you."
A lump formed in my throat. I believed him. I hated that I did—but it didn't make it any less true.
We sat there for a while longer, quiet again, the soft clink of our mugs the only sound in the room.
Finally, I stood. "I'm gonna take a shower. You can stay, if you want."
He raised a brow. "Is that an invitation?"
I rolled my eyes but smirked. "To stay, Justin. Not to join."
"Yet," he muttered, grinning as I walked away.
I laughed, tossing a towel over my shoulder. "Behave."
When I came back down, fresh and wrapped in a robe, I found him asleep on my couch—head tilted back, arms folded, one hand still loosely holding the remote.
He looked peaceful. Younger. Like the war inside him had gone quiet, just for tonight.
And as I stood there watching him, something inside me shifted.
Maybe this wasn't perfect. Maybe it was dangerous, complicated, and messy.
But maybe… it was ours.
And maybe that was enough—for now.
I pulled a blanket over him, letting my fingers linger for a second on his arm before turning off the lights.
Tomorrow could wait.
Tonight, he was home.