The soft rustle of the blanket was the only sound in the room as I pulled it over Justin's sleeping form. He looked like he belonged there, even though everything about this life—this house, this world—should've felt like the opposite of him.
But love had a strange way of blurring the lines between what was and what could be.
I sat across from him for a while, knees pulled to my chest on the armchair, sipping lukewarm coffee. Watching him sleep felt like peeking into an alternate universe—one where we'd never broken apart, never been forced into the roles we now wore like heavy armor. In that universe, he played basketball on Saturdays, I wrote papers and graded essays, and we argued about what movie to watch over takeout.
But this wasn't that universe.
Justin stirred, lashes fluttering before his eyes opened slowly. He looked at me with the kind of sleepy softness that didn't belong to a mafia enforcer. It belonged to the boy who used to walk me home after school, holding my hand like it was the most precious thing in the world.
"You always watch me sleep now?" he mumbled, voice thick with drowsiness.
"Only when you're drooling," I replied with a smirk.
He grinned, stretching lazily before sitting up. "You missed me, didn't you?"
I didn't answer. He already knew.
We spent the morning in quiet moments—making breakfast together, shoulder to shoulder, his hand brushing mine more than necessary. I let it happen. I let myself feel again, without overthinking it.
But reality had a way of creeping back in.
Later that day, as we sat on the couch flipping through old playlists and teasing each other over awful taste in music, his phone buzzed.
I watched the light fade from his eyes before he even picked it up.
He stood, read the message, then exhaled like the weight of the world had just been thrown back on his shoulders.
"What is it?" I asked, already knowing I wouldn't like the answer.
He hesitated, then turned to me. "Something's happening. In the city. I have to go back tonight."
I stood too, arms folded across my chest. "Of course you do."
"Riya…"
"No, it's fine," I said quickly, the familiar ache settling into my chest. "I knew this was temporary."
He crossed the room in two strides, cupping my face gently. "No. This isn't temporary. That is."
I stared at him, wanting to believe it. Wanting it so badly.
"Then prove it," I said quietly. "Don't disappear without telling me what's going on. Don't lie to protect me from things I already know are dangerous. Let me in."
His expression softened, and for a moment, I saw the war inside him—duty versus desire. Power versus love.
"I'll tell you everything," he promised. "Just… not yet. Let me handle this, and then we'll talk. Really talk."
I nodded, even though it felt like a truce with an expiration date.
He stayed for another hour. We didn't speak much. Just sat close, fingers linked like an anchor against the inevitable tide.
When he finally left, the house felt too quiet.
Too empty.
I wandered the rooms aimlessly, touching old things like they might give me clarity. But nothing felt right. Not until I walked into my bedroom and found a note on the pillow in Justin's messy handwriting:
> "You are my beginning and my end, McKenzie. Don't forget that."
I folded it carefully, pressing it to my chest.
He hadn't promised forever.
But for now, he'd given me hope.
And that was enough.
For today.
I had a job interview that day, I remembered as I rinsed my coffee mug.
I had applied for a teaching job at a high school. It wasn't my dream position, but it was something—something steady, something real. A chance to start over in a way that didn't come with shadows attached.
I walked to the closet, fingers brushing past dresses and cardigans that smelled faintly of old lavender and worn ambition. I pulled out a navy blouse and black slacks—safe, professional, unremarkable. Just the way the world liked their teachers.
As I stood in front of the mirror, smoothing my hair back, I caught my reflection and paused.
There was something different in my eyes.
Like a spark had returned—small, maybe, but undeniable. Maybe it was Justin's presence. Or maybe it was the chaos he'd stirred back into my blood, reminding me I was alive.
I packed my resume, my references, and a well-practiced smile.
The school was only a twenty-minute drive away. A modest campus with ivy curling along the fencing and rows of trees just beginning to blush with spring. Students milled around, laughing, dragging heavy backpacks, earbuds in.
It felt like another world—simple, structured, untouched.
The receptionist smiled warmly as I checked in. "Ms. McKenzie, they'll see you in a few minutes."
I sat in the waiting area, clutching my folder like it could anchor me, and tried not to think about Justin. About where he was. About what "something's happening in the city" could really mean.
But that was like trying not to breathe.
The principal's door opened, and a woman in a gray pantsuit stepped out. She looked efficient, firm—but kind. "Riya? Come on in."
The interview went well. Better than I expected. We talked about curriculum, student engagement, my passion for literature. I even made her laugh when I told her how I once bribed an entire class into loving poetry with donuts.
She said they'd get back to me by the end of the week.
Walking out into the sunlight, I felt… lighter.
Until I checked my phone.
1 New Message.
From a number I didn't recognize.
> Unknown: You really think you can play house while he's out cleaning up his messes?
My heart dropped. Fingers trembling, I stared at the screen.
Then another message came in.
> Unknown: Be careful, Ms. McKenzie. You're more involved than you think.
The breeze felt colder now. The sun, harsher. I looked around—cars passed, students laughed, life continued—but suddenly, I didn't feel alone.
And not in the comforting, Justin's-arms-around-me way.
In the hunted way.
I swallowed hard and tucked my phone into my bag, refusing to let them see me panic. I walked calmly back to my car, every instinct on high alert, and drove straight home.
Locking the door behind me, I leaned against it, breath shallow.
The shadows Justin carried with him... they weren't just his anymore.
Theyhad followed me too.
I knew that no matter what, i couldn't allow Justin to find out about the message.
Not yet.
He had enough on his plate already. He didn't need to worry about me, too—not when he was already wading neck-deep in whatever darkness had summoned him back to the city.
Still, I saved the messages. Took screenshots. Forwarded them to a separate email address only I knew about. If something happened, I wanted a record. A breadcrumb trail. A whisper of truth in case silence swallowed everything else.
I kept telling myself it was just a threat. Just intimidation. Empty words designed to rattle me.
But the truth?
I was already rattled.
Later that evening, I tried to lose myself in mundane things. Watered my plants. Organized the kitchen drawer no one ever opens. Attempted to start a novel but reread the same paragraph five times before giving up. Every noise outside felt too loud. Every passing car felt like it slowed just a second too long.
I didn't sleep.
By morning, I looked like it too—dark circles under my eyes, nerves stretched thin like piano wire. I barely heard the knock at the door until it came again, louder, sharper.
I froze.
Three knocks. Then silence.
I tiptoed to the peephole, every part of me braced for the worst.
But it wasn't the worst.
It was Leila.
I exhaled and quickly opened the door.
"Hey," she said, stepping in without waiting for an invitation. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
"Something like that," I muttered, locking the door behind her.
Leila was one of the few people who knew pieces of the truth—about Justin, about the past, about me. She wasn't involved, not directly, but she had eyes. And instincts sharper than most.
We sat in the living room, the silence between us thick until I finally handed her my phone.
Her eyes narrowed as she read the messages. "When did you get these?"
"Yesterday. Right after the interview."
"You tell Justin?"
"No," I said quickly. "And I won't. Not until I figure out what this is."
She looked at me, expression unreadable. "You sure that's smart?"
"Probably not," I admitted. "But if I tell him, he'll storm in guns blazing. And I need answers, not chaos."
Leila leaned back, her gaze flickering toward the window. "You think it's a warning? Or a test?"
"Maybe both." I rubbed my temples. "Either way, it means someone's watching me. Watching us."
Leila frowned. "You want me to ask around?"
"Yes. Quietly. And if anyone else gets a message like this… I want to know."
She nodded. "Alright. But be careful, Riya. You're not just some girl from his past anymore. You're his present. And that makes you a target."
The weight of that truth settled like lead in my chest.
After Leila left, I paced the living room for a long while, every instinct warring with my heart.
Then I made a decision.
If they were watching, then fine.
Let them.
I opened my laptop and pulled up a blank document. If I couldn't stop the storm from coming, then I would at least be prepared. I'd keep notes. Clues. Names. Anything that felt off. Anything that could be useful.
Because maybe Justin was right—maybe this thing between us wasn't temporary.
But neither was the danger.
I was to start working at the school the next Monday.
By Monday morning, I was driving to school with a quiet determination that masked the chaos churning beneath the surface. The sky was still streaked with soft pinks and oranges, but my mind was painted with grays—dull, overcast thoughts I couldn't shake.
I hadn't heard from Justin.
It wasn't like him to vanish without a word. Not after everything we'd shared. Not after the things he'd promised.
But then again, I didn't really know who he was anymore. Not all of him. Just the pieces he'd allowed me to see.
And maybe that's what scared me the most.
The school came into view, its red-brick exterior glowing in the early light. It looked peaceful. Like a place where real life happened. A place untouched by mafia drama, by secrets and threats and cryptic messages sent from untraceable numbers.
I parked and took a long breath before stepping out of the car.
Inside, the halls were already alive with energy—students brushing past each other, teachers chatting in low voices, announcements buzzing overhead. I was greeted by the principal with a warm smile and a steaming cup of coffee, and for a fleeting second, I allowed myself to believe I belonged here.
My first class was a blur. Names and faces. Introductions and awkward silences. But by second period, something shifted. A girl in the front row—Samira—raised her hand during our discussion of "To Kill a Mockingbird" and made a brilliant point about moral courage. Another student countered with something even sharper. The conversation took on a life of its own.
I smiled for real then. Maybe this was what I needed. A place where I could be Riya McKenzie, English teacher—not the girl caught between past and present, heart and danger.
But as the day wore on, I couldn't shake the feeling that something was… off.
It started small.
A janitor I didn't recognize passed by my classroom twice in the span of twenty minutes. He wasn't pushing a cart or carrying supplies. Just walking. Watching.
Later, when I went to grab a coffee from the teacher's lounge, my name badge was gone from the hook where I'd left it. Five minutes later, it was back. Sitting neatly on my desk.
And then, as I was walking to the parking lot at the end of the day, a black SUV I didn't recognize pulled out of a side street and followed me for three blocks before turning away.
I tried to tell myself I was being paranoid. That my brain was latching onto harmless things and turning them into patterns. But instinct is a powerful thing. And mine was screaming at me.
Still, I said nothing.
I didn't call Justin. Didn't text. I wasn't going to be the weak link. He had enough on his plate. And after the last message, I knew better than to underestimate whoever was watching us.
When I got home, I locked the door behind me and checked every window. My laptop sat open on the kitchen table where I'd left it, still filled with half-typed notes—observations, names, things that felt off. I added today's details.
After that, I did the most normal thing I could think of: I cooked dinner.
Something simple. Pasta, garlic bread, a glass of wine I didn't finish.
I kept waiting for Justin to walk through the door, to call, to say something. But the night stretched on in silence.
Around ten, just as I was considering calling Leila to check in, my phone buzzed.
My breath caught.
Unknown Number.
I stared at the screen for a moment, heart pounding, then swiped to open it.
One message.
> He's still alive. For now.
I dropped the phone.
It clattered against the floor, face down. The room felt like it had tilted sideways. My lungs seized, unable to pull in enough air.
I picked the phone back up with trembling fingers, hoping—stupidly—that I'd read it wrong.
But the message was still there.
No picture this time. No demand. Just a chilling statement.
He's still alive. For now.
I wanted to scream. I wanted to throw the phone across the room. I wanted to believe it was some sick prank, some shadowy bluff.
But I couldn't.
Because I knew it wasn't a lie.
They had him. Or they knew where he was. Either way, it meant the line had been crossed. Whatever distance Justin thought he was keeping between me and his world—it didn't exist anymore.
I was in it.
And so was he.
I stood in the middle of my kitchen, heart hammering, and tried to figure out what to do next. Go to the police? What would I even say? "Hi, my maybe-boyfriend is tangled up in the mafia and I think he's in danger, based on a text I got from a number I blocked three times?"
No. That wasn't an option. Not yet.
I needed help. But not just anyone. Someone who understood this world. Someone with reach.
My mind went to Leila.
I started to dial.
But before the call could connect, there was a sound behind me.
A creak.
From the hallway.
I spun, phone still in hand.
"Leila?" I called out, stupidly hopeful.
No response.
I crept forward slowly, each step careful, quiet. The hallway was dark. My bedroom door was cracked slightly open, though I remembered shutting it earlier.
I reached for the light switch.
Nothing happened.
Power was still on in the kitchen.
This was deliberate.
I backed away slowly, heart in my throat. My hand brushed against the drawer where I kept an old flashlight, and I grabbed it, flicking it on. A weak beam illuminated the hallway.
And then I saw it.
A shadow—just beyond the doorway. Standing still.
Watching me.
Before I could react, a voice cut through the silence.
Low. Male.
"I told him you were a distraction."
I froze.
The voice wasn't familiar.
But the message was.
My phone slipped from my hand again.
The man stepped forward, just far enough for the light to catch the bottom half of his face. Scar along the jawline. Cold eyes.
He smiled without warmth.
"But now," he said, "I think you might be something else entirely."