#f.p.

The church is small, nestled between a pharmacy and a closed-down bakery, but it’s warm inside. The pews creak when people shift. The old woman behind you sings the hymns like she means them, and the wooden cross at the front of the sanctuary has a single white ribbon pinned to it — like a reminder that resurrection follows death.

You grip the sides of the hymnal and try to focus.

But your mind drifts. Always… back to him.

The cold tiles of the butcher’s floor.

The raw scream that split the air like meat being torn.

The voice — that voice — murmuring calmly, unmistakably Frank’s.

And then: the gloves. The scarf. The brooch in your dorm.

Your stomach churns. You swallow it down.

Up front, the pastor’s voice steadies like a hand on your shoulder.

“Now the book of Esther, beloved, is the only book in the Bible where God’s name is never mentioned… but don’t be mistaken. His presence is everywhere in it.”

You lift your gaze to the pulpit.

“Esther was an orphan. A nobody. A woman in exile. But she was beautiful, wise, and obedient. The King chose her to be Queen of Persia, not knowing her people — the Jews — were condemned by his own decree.”

“And what did Esther do when the decree to kill her people came down from Haman, the king’s right-hand man?”

“She fasted. She prayed. She put on royal robes. And she walked into the King’s court, uninvited, risking her life — because if she didn’t speak, no one else would.”

You close your eyes. The butcher’s scream rings again. The rust-brown gloves folded like organs.

Frank’s note, still on your desk.

You’re no queen. No heroine. But you know what you saw.

And worse: you know who they are. The men in the meat shop. The business deals done in silence. The envelopes and favors dressed as scholarships.

The pastor continues.

“When Mordecai warned Esther, he said something I want us to remember today. He said: ‘If you keep silent at this time, relief and deliverance will rise for the Jews from another place—but you and your father’s house will perish. Who knows whether you have not come to the kingdom for such a time as this?’”

You feel it hit your chest like a hammer.

For such a time as this.

You remember Alexander — sweet, clumsy, too-eager Alexander, working long hours in that metal shop, scraping pennies, saving for classes. His coworkers. Immigrants. Quiet people with tired hands and gentle eyes.

You remember what the butcher muttered under his breath when you asked about interviewing foreigners.

You remember the subtle sneer. The way he looked you over.

He didn’t want to let you speak to them. You weren’t surprised.

But you didn’t expect what you heard behind that door.

And now — you know too much.

The pastor’s voice softens.

“Esther didn’t save her people by force. She didn’t call down fire or hold a sword. She used wisdom. Presence. And when the King saw her standing there — knowing full well that she risked death — he extended his golden scepter.”

“Sometimes, that’s all courage is: standing in the room you’re not supposed to be in, and not looking away.”

Your chest feels tight. Your knees shaky. You excuse yourself before the benediction.

Outside, the sun is too bright. You blink against it.

You feel the weight of Esther’s story in your bones now.

You have seen the King’s face — and you know what he is.

But there are others. Quiet ones. Innocents.

And someone else has begun to notice your closeness to him.

You can feel it.

A man in Frank’s orbit, darker than him in spirit, if not in power. You’ve seen him at gatherings — with the sharp eyes, the bitter tongue. He doesn’t speak to you directly, but he watches.

You don’t know his name yet.

But soon you will.

And he will know yours.

“Let me remind you something, church…”

The pastor’s voice grows quieter now, not for lack of passion, but the kind of hush that makes a room lean in.

“Esther could’ve died.”

You stop fiddling with your gloves.

“This wasn’t symbolic. This wasn’t dramatic license. This wasn’t a fairytale.”

His eyes scan the congregation, but for a split second — irrational as it may be — you feel like he’s looking right at you.

“The law said that anyone who approached the king without being summoned could be put to death. Doesn’t matter who you were. Doesn’t matter if you wore a crown. If you weren’t called — and you walked in anyway — your life was forfeit.”

You’re not breathing anymore.

“Now maybe you know that kind of fear,” the pastor says slowly. “The kind where you know what you should say — what’s right to say — but the cost of it? That’s where the battle really is. That’s where the enemy whispers, ‘Better to stay quiet. Better to survive.’”

His voice sharpens. Like flint.

“But hear me: survival without truth is not life. Esther knew the risk. She knew she might never leave that court. And still she said: ‘If I perish, I perish.’”

“That’s the heartbeat of courage, church. Not absence of fear. But presence of conviction.”

Your hands are shaking now.

Because you know what it means to walk into a palace and smile. To be touched gently by the hand of a man who can destroy you.

To wear the gift of someone whose gloves smell like blood.

The sermon continues, but your body feels far away.

You’d once thought Frank was just a man with money, charm, and a penchant for velvet secrets. You were wrong. He’s a king, yes — but not of stories.

A king of cities.

A king of silence.

A king whose throne is built on bones.

And you? You’re no longer just a guest.

You’ve been ushered into his court, dressed in his gifts, served from his table.

But your people aren’t his.

And his kingdom comes with a cost.

“So I ask you this morning,” the pastor calls out, one final plea ringing through the sanctuary like a tolling bell. “What court are you standing in? What truth are you afraid to speak? And what if — just what if — you were born for such a time as this?”

The package arrives on a grey Thursday, just after you’d come back from the university’s archive room.

It’s not Frank.

It’s a man who calls himself Signor Nicolás— Italian accent curled sharp around the edges, like a knife honed for conversation. He's tall, groomed, with silvering temples and a long camel coat that makes him look like an ambassador to some forgotten kingdom.

He bows slightly. “Dottoressa,” he says, a little too pleased with himself for using the title.

You blink. You’ve never introduced yourself with that term. Frank must’ve briefed him.

He sets the package down on the table in your small room. The box is wrapped not in paper, but in a soft ivory cloth. Embroidered. You already know it’s expensive.

“From the Signore,” he says, like everyone should know who the Signore is.

“Thank you,” you reply cautiously.

He doesn’t leave.

Instead, he lingers near your bookshelf, skimming the titles with mock curiosity. “You like old ideas,” he muses. “This one…” He points to your worn copy of Pedagogy of the Oppressed. “Still relevant? I thought all that Marxist sentimentalism had died with the Berlin Wall.”

You say nothing. You nod politely. You do not take the bait.

“I myself prefer discipline over critique,” he adds. “But then again, I suppose when one’s from countries that... struggle with order, critique becomes a habit, no?”

You nearly drop your teacup. It isn’t what he says — it’s the casual ease of it. The smile behind it.

“Countries like?” you ask, voice flat.

“Oh, you know,” he waves vaguely. “South America. The Levant. Parts of Africa. Not Europe, of course — we outgrew chaos a long time ago.”

You want to scream. But you smile instead.

He gestures to the gift. “I chose this particular one myself. Frank wanted something useful this time. Not sentimental. You are too sharp for trinkets, no?”

You peel back the cloth slowly. It’s a fountain pen. Black lacquer. Gold trim. Engraved with your initials.

And beneath it, a sheaf of watermarked paper. The good kind. The kind judges use.

“You’re writing about immigrant labor,” he says without waiting for confirmation. “You should document everything properly. We like tidy minds. Tidy conclusions.”

Your heart sinks.

He knows what your thesis is about. Why would he know? Why would Frank tell him?

“Don’t forget,” he says as he stands to leave, “Canada has always been built by newcomers. But kingdoms…” He pauses at the door. “Kingdoms are built by those who decide who stays.”

Then, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world: “Chin up, Esther. You’ve already been chosen.”

The door shuts.

You stare at the pen. The paper. Your hands feel like they’ve been dipped in oil.

You understand now.

You weren’t the only one being watched.

You were being measured.

The invitation comes in a sealed envelope, hand-delivered like always. Heavy parchment. Minimal words. Just a time, and an address.

Frank’s real address.

The one you were never meant to need.

It’s not the chapel. Not the art wing. Not the borrowed conference room where he first watched you give a nervous presentation on irregular labor practices in Southern Italy. No — this time it’s his personal quarters.

The estate sits at the far edge of the property, beyond a wrought iron gate and a drive long enough to forget you're still in Québec. It’s quiet. Palatial. Designed for discretion.

You’re led through a small foyer lined with oil paintings and glass cabinets displaying relics — Catholic, military, Roman, you’re not sure. The man collecting these things clearly believes in legacy.

He’s waiting for you in the study. Leaning back in a leather chair by the fire, a tumbler of amber liquor at his side, a half-smoked cigar between his fingers.

“Tesoro.”

He always calls you that.

You hate how good it sounds.

“You said you wanted to discuss the next disbursement for my stipend,” you begin, setting your satchel down on the nearest table. “I brought the preliminary budget. I can—”

“You look tense.”

He interrupts softly. Not rude, not abrupt. But enough to make it clear this is his room, not yours.

You straighten. “It’s been a long week.”

He gestures lazily toward the seat across from him. “Come. Sit.”

You do. Slowly. His gaze traces your every move — the hem of your skirt when you cross your legs, the fingers that adjust your blouse, the way you avoid meeting his eyes too long. He says nothing, but his lips curve slightly at the corners.

He smokes in silence while you speak.

“…and the expenses at the campus café doubled due to the construction. I can still work within the amount we agreed upon, but I’ll likely have to do some evening shifts at the—”

“Come sit on my lap.”

You blink.

“I… I’m good where I am, thank you.”

You try to keep your voice neutral. Academic. Detached.

He chuckles — not in mockery, but in something dangerously amused. Like watching a kitten try to argue with a lion.

“Tesoro,” he says again. “That wasn’t a suggestion.”

He doesn’t raise his voice.

He doesn’t need to.

You stare at him.

Frank doesn’t move, doesn’t shift — just holds the cigar between two fingers, watching you through the curling smoke as if nothing about this is out of the ordinary.

But it is.

Everything about this is not ordinary.

And yet—

You stand.

Walk slowly.

He doesn’t reach for you when you approach. He waits. Not patient — confident.

And when you finally sit — stiff, barely touching him — his arm snakes around your waist and pulls you fully onto him. Like gravity. Like something inevitable.

“Better,” he murmurs.

You can feel his heartbeat where your spine presses against his chest. One hand settles on your thigh. The other taps ash into the tray.

“What are you afraid of?” he asks, not unkindly.

You don’t answer.

Because the answer is everything.

You're afraid of him.

Afraid of yourself.

Afraid of how your body betrays your mind, leaning into his touch like you want to belong to something this dangerous, this powerful.

“I don’t do anything halfway,” he murmurs near your ear. “Not business. Not politics. Not the women I protect.”

He says it like a promise.

Or a warning.

You could leave.

You should leave.

But the fire crackles softly behind you, and his hand is warm, and you are so tired of being strong.

So you stay.

You shift in his lap, attempting to pull your satchel closer without drawing attention to how your legs tremble beneath your skirt.

Frank rests one hand on your knee. Not suggestive — not yet. Just... there. Claiming.

"Now," he says, voice low, smoke curling from the edge of his lips. "Your report, tesoro. I want to hear what you're building with my name on it."

Your throat tightens. "The research?"

He nods.

You retrieve the folder and open it with practiced precision. Pages filled with proposed structures, anonymized interviews, early analysis. All the clean metrics that have made you stand out. All the things that made him notice you in the first place.

You read aloud.

You keep your voice steady, eyes fixed on the paper, not on the shape of his thigh beneath you, or the heat of his breath on your temple.

You hear him murmur “Good girl” more than once, always when you reference something careful. Discreet. Loyal.

You’re halfway through your section on labor patterns in semi-formal industries when the door opens.

Frank doesn’t move.

You tense.

A man walks in, somewhere in his late forties, greying at the temples but still broad-shouldered, wearing an expensive but rumpled coat. He glances once at you — then past you, toward Frank.

"Boss," he says. The accent is southern. Italian. Strong.

You recognize him instantly. He’d been at the art exposition — laughing too loud, drinking too much. The one Frank had called "Cugino."

“Giacomo,” Frank says easily, as if nothing is odd about having a young woman balanced in his lap while he reviews academic documents.

“Need your signature on the Fontaine papers,” Giacomo says, pulling a thick folder from under his arm. He hesitates. Looks at you again. “Should I come back later?”

“No need,” Frank says.

You sit up straighter, cheeks burning. “It’s alright, I can step—”

“You’ll stay where you are,” Frank says, without looking at you.

Your mouth opens.

Closes.

Giacomo raises a brow, then shrugs. He places the folder on the table beside you and leans in to flip to the marked page. “This one’s for the sale of the Mirabel property. The accountant flagged some inconsistencies in the—”

“There were none,” you say, voice light but automatic. “That file’s clean. I cross-checked it last week.”

You freeze.

Giacomo looks up, slowly.

Frank does not react. Not immediately.

Only after a long pause — long enough for the realization to settle like ash — does he say:

“Tesoro, what did you just say?”

You feel it in your chest. The shift in tone. He’s not angry. Not visibly. But something has gone cold.

Your fingers tighten around the folder in your lap.

“I—I meant I looked at a similar file last week,” you say, trying to recover, “for a different project. It’s just—formatting looked familiar, that’s all.”

Frank doesn’t blink.

Giacomo gives a slow, humorless smile.

“Boss,” he says, not bothering to hide the sarcasm. “Didn’t know your girl had clearance.”

“She doesn’t,” Frank says, still looking at you.

Silence.

Long.

Thick.

You feel the gravity of the moment — not just because of what you said, but because it slipped out. Because for a second, you forgot the game. For a second, you acted like an equal.

Frank lifts the pen.

Signs without looking.

"Leave it," he says to Giacomo.

When the door closes again, the room feels ten degrees hotter.

Frank puts out the cigar.

Leans back.

And for the first time, his voice carries the dangerous softness of a man who doesn’t like being second-guessed.

“Tesoro,” he says. “You’re smart. Brilliant, even. But you don’t know what you're not supposed to know.”

You open your mouth.

He presses a finger to your lips.

“Don’t. Lie.”

He isn’t angry.

He’s something worse.

“Do you want to be kept safe, or do you want to be part of the world that needs protection?”

You say nothing.

Because you’re not sure there’s a right answer anymore.

Frank’s silence stretches. Not angry. Not loud.

Worse.

He watches you, the way a man might watch a caged thing testing the bars.

“I am truly fond of you, sweetheart,” he says at last. The warmth in his voice is a trapdoor. “But rules are rules. And if you want to stay in here…”

He taps the folder you had been reading from.

“…they apply to you too.”

The chair creaks as he leans forward. You can feel the sharpness of his gaze even as you look away, every muscle in your body tightening in preparation for something.

Then—he doesn't speak.

He growls.

Low. Animal.

A sound pulled from the depths of a man used to command. Not with words. But with fear.

Your breath stops.

His hand—still on your knee—tightens just slightly. Enough to send a jolt down your spine. Enough to remind you how easily he could make you disappear from this chair, this room, this city.

“…Never contradict me,” he says, slow, controlled, inches from your ear. “Especially not in front of my men.”

His breath is hot. The tip of his nose grazes your temple.

“I made you something delicate. Precious. Don’t go making me wonder if you’re just another mouth that needs to be shut.”

Your eyes sting, but you don’t dare blink too hard. You sit perfectly still, afraid even your heartbeat might sound like dissent.

Then—

Suddenly—

He pulls back.

All the tension drains from his posture like it was never there. He exhales through his nose, smooths your skirt with a strangely gentle hand.

“And now,” he says with something like amusement, “back to the report. Where were we?”

You don’t answer.

He doesn’t need you to.

You smile. It’s not real.

Because in this room, you are not a scholar.

You are not a guest.

You are not even a woman.

You are his.

The church smells like old wood and paper bulletins. The sun cuts through the colored glass in dull strips, painting warmth across the pews. You sit toward the back, hands still stiff in your lap, body still aching from the chair in Frank’s office. His voice still buzzes somewhere inside your skull.

But here, the silence is different.

Not thick with control.

Just… quiet.

“Good to see you back, sister,” comes a familiar voice.

You turn, startled. The pastor’s smile is weathered, wide. His braid is silvered at the temples now, but his eyes — sharp and steady — still hold the kind of calm that makes children stop crying, or broken people stay a little longer in pews.

“Pastor Eli,” you exhale, rising.

“Thought I saw your coat earlier. Still cold out there.”

“It’s been a hard week,” you admit before you can stop yourself.

He doesn’t ask. He just gestures toward his office.

You follow.

The walls are covered in books — some worn from prayer and time, others stacked with sticky notes and dog-eared corners. A small cedar cross hangs behind the desk, and a pot of strong coffee steams beside two chipped mugs.

“I’ve read your thesis proposal,” he says, settling down, glasses perched low on his nose. “Immigrant labor structures across industry sectors. Heavy. But urgent.”

“Thank you for agreeing to help.”

“Of course. Our congregation would be honored. Many of them have lived exactly the kinds of stories you’re hoping to document. You’ll find no shortage of testimony here. But tell me, how’s your soul holding up?”

You blink.

That’s what he always asks.

Not How are you? Not How’s school? But your soul.

You smile faintly. “Tired.”

He nods, not pressing. Just listening. Pouring the coffee.

“Have you been praying?”

“Not like I used to.”

“Then maybe not like you need to,” he says, without cruelty. “And maybe it’s time to stop seeing Esther as a metaphor.”

You look up. “What do you mean?”

Pastor Eli leans back, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “Most people think the point of Esther’s story was that she was beautiful and brave. That God used her in a palace. But what most forget is: she almost died.”

He holds your gaze.

“She put her life on the line. Went to the king uninvited. That wasn’t romance. That was intercession. She wasn’t there for herself — she was there for her people.”

You swallow, the words hitting too close.

“She could’ve kept quiet. Lived a soft life. Worn silk, worn perfume. But Mordecai told her the truth — ‘Perhaps you were made queen for such a time as this.’ That means there was a cost. And she paid it.”

You stare at the rim of your mug, heart thudding.

“She had power — but it wasn’t hers. It was given to her. Loaned. And she gave it back to God.”

He doesn’t say Frank’s name.

He doesn’t have to.

Your silence is loud.

“And the king,” he continues gently, “was only a king. Not a savior. He made a choice, yes. But Esther moved his heart because she was righteous. Because she risked. Because she spoke.”

You feel your throat tighten. You bite the inside of your cheek.

Pastor Eli’s voice softens even more.

“You don’t need to be brave every minute, sister. Just the moment God says, Speak. And if you hear that moment coming… you need to know who you are before it does.”

You nod, slowly.

He refills your mug. The smell of cedar and coffee and dust swirls around you. You are not in Frank’s office anymore.

You are seen. Not owned.

“By the way,” he adds, lifting a folder, “if you’d like, I can have one of our deacons help you arrange interview schedules. I’ve already spoken to some of the elders. The youth ministry could be an excellent source too — second-generation immigrants have so much to say about work, identity, loss…”

He trails off, watching your face. “You’re somewhere else, aren’t you?”

“I’m just—grateful,” you say. “This means everything.”

He places a hand over yours. Warm. Steady.

“You’re not alone, daughter. Even if you’re walking straight into fire.”

You nod.

You don’t tell him you already feel the heat.

The letter is sealed in a thick, white envelope. No name. Just the red ink on the corner — a sigil you’ve come to recognize: a single black tower circled by laurels. Municipal. Provincial. Cold.

Pastor Eli lifts it with two fingers, studying it like one might study a snake in the grass. His secretary had found it slipped under the church doors before sunrise.

He reads it once. Then again.

And then he sighs, deep from the belly. The kind of sigh that comes with knowing too much.

You are left alone at the church, your finger holding a Bible open, book of Esther, chapter 2:

21 During the time Mordecai was sitting next to the king’s gate, this happened: Bigthana and Teresh, two of the king’s officers who guarded the doorway, became angry with the king. They began to make plans to kill King Xerxes.   22 But Mordecai learned about these plans and told Queen Esther. Then she told the king. She also told him that Mordecai was the one who had learned about the evil plan.   23 Then the report was checked out. It was learned that Mordecai’s report was true. The two guards who had planned to kill the king were hanged on a post. All these things were written down in a book of the king’s histories in front of the king.

It’s dark when he arrives at the estate. The road winds like a secret. No signs. No streetlights. Just iron gates and that creeping feeling in his stomach again — like the old days, when he still carried the war in his bones.

The guards don’t question his arrival. Mordecai always has clearance.

“Don Paterno is inside,” one nods. “Waiting.”

Eli walks slowly through the marble corridor, boots echoing softly. He doesn’t ask for a drink. He doesn’t sit. When he enters the study, Frank is already there — one hand on a crystal glass, the other resting on a file.

“Preacher,” Frank says smoothly. “To what do I owe the honor?”

Eli lifts the letter and tosses it on the desk between them. “They’re coming for you.”

Frank’s jaw moves once. Then stops. He doesn’t touch the letter.

“Is that so.”

“There’s a sting in two weeks. Officially it’s a tax fraud investigation. Unofficially—it’s a power play.”

Frank’s eyes narrow. “Whose?”

“Your old friend, Lambert. Now running for premier. The one who owns half the prison contracts in the province. His whole campaign is based on law and order.”

Frank chuckles, but it’s hollow. “He needs a monster.”

“You’re perfect,” Eli replies. “Rich. Italian. Catholic. Powerful. With just enough truth in the rumors to keep the headlines juicy.”

Frank leans back. “And you’ve come to warn me. Out of what, loyalty?”

Eli doesn’t blink.

“One of my young men — Claude — used to run numbers for your men. Back in ’91. He came to me shaking when he heard about the sting. Said they offered him immunity if he gave a statement. He’s clean now. Got two kids. Works double shifts at a plant. But they don’t care. He’s a body. And bodies make headlines.”

Frank doesn’t speak. He just watches.

Eli steps closer. “You think I came here to save you?”

Silence.

“I came to protect him. And the dozen other poor men of color they’re going to march across a courtroom as proof that Lambert ‘cleans house’. You’re the headline. But they’re the ones who’ll rot in a cell while your lawyers negotiate deals.”

Frank’s lips part. Then close.

“I don’t like you,” Eli adds simply. “But I trust the devil I know more than the ones I don’t. And you—”

He lifts the envelope again and tosses it back.

“You have enough power to stop this quietly. Not just for yourself. But for the ones under you.”

Frank rises. There’s a flicker in his eyes — not gratitude. Not exactly. Something colder. Something closer to… calculation.

“They watch your church, you know,” he murmurs. “My men go every week. You preach like you're free, but they still come back with numbers. How many people. How many dollars. What they wear. What they drive.”

Eli doesn’t flinch.

“Let them.”

Frank lights a cigar, slow. Deliberate. “You’re very bold, Pastor.”

“I serve someone higher than you, Paterno.”

There’s a beat.

Then Frank nods, just once. As if to say so do I — though his god wears better suits.

—

You don’t know any of this, not yet.

All you know is that Pastor Eli called you, asked if you’d like to meet for tea. Said he had something you might want to hear — something about the justice system, about who wins when poor men go to prison, and who profits.

You don’t know that your Mordecai just saved a king. Or how he did it with grit and silence instead of violence.

You just know something is shifting.

And the moment is coming closer.

You're sitting on the church steps. The snow hasn't come yet, but the sky is a flat, pregnant gray. It makes the trees look like paper silhouettes. You're holding a cup of hot tea in your gloved hands, watching Pastor Eli pour another for himself.

It was supposed to be a quick thank-you visit. He opened his congregation to your research without hesitation. But you didn’t expect this heaviness. This quiet.

You look over at him. “You okay, Pastor?”

He gives a tired smile.

“You ever seen a family photo,” he begins, “and there’s one chair left empty? Not because someone’s late. But because someone’s gone?”

You nod. Maybe.

“My mother had eight children. By the time I was sixteen, only three of us were left in the house.”

He pauses. His breath clouds the air.

“They called it ‘adoption.’ Called it ‘saving them.’ But we knew. My youngest sister was taken from the reserve when she was three. Catholic charity. White couple from Ontario. We never saw her again.”

You blink. “Was this... during the Sixties Scoop?”

Eli nods slowly. “Closer to the tail end. Late seventies. But the Scoop never really ended. Not where I come from. They just gave it new names. Child welfare. Integration programs. Same theft. Different paperwork.”

The silence between you sharpens.

Then he adds: “My brother ended up in juvie. Not because he was dangerous. But because they said he was ‘loitering’ near a shopping center. He was fourteen.”

You swallow. “And now?”

Eli looks out across the snow-dusted street.

“Died in prison. Gaspé, 1985.”

You close your eyes. The air feels thinner.

He shifts in his seat.

“You want to understand what’s happening with Frank Paterno? The prisons, the raids, the stings dressed up as virtue?” He gestures with his mug. “Look at Bill C-36. Passed just last year. They say it’s about criminal law reform — mandatory minimums, tougher parole conditions. But it's just another tool.”

You try to keep up. “Tool for what?”

“For business, girl. Since 1989, we’ve had our first for-profit prisons getting talked about in Parliament. And now? Well. You see the direction. In the States, they got the Thirteenth Amendment — slavery’s abolished except for punishment. We’ve got something slicker.”

He leans in, voice lower.

“Incarcerated folks here in Canada can be legally forced into manual labour. Penal labour. There’s a whole labor program for inmates — CORCAN. Makes furniture. Clothing. Things for the military. Pays them cents per hour.”

“But that’s—”

“—Slavery. Repackaged.”

You feel your hands clench around the cup.

He sits back. “Frank Paterno’s not the only one making money from desperation. He’s just more honest about it than Lambert.”

There’s a silence again. Not awkward. Not angry. Just real.

“Can I ask something?” you murmur. “Why do you still come here? To this city. This work. These people.”

He looks at you. Something gentle in his face.

“Because someone has to. Because there’s always one Esther. And one Haman. And if I have to stand at the gate every week, count the damn tithe reports, and keep my kids out of chains — then so be it.”

You feel the lump rising in your throat. The tea is cold now.

Pastor Eli pats your knee.

“Frank sees you, you know,” he adds softly. “Not just sees you. I mean he’s watching. Choosing. That kind of man doesn’t court. He claims. You be careful.”

You whisper: “I already saw something. At the butcher.”

His expression doesn’t change.

“I know,” he says, two simple words that let know the two decades he has spent seeing far worse things.

That’s all.

And suddenly, you don’t feel like you're walking into your thesis anymore.

You're walking into war.

You're still at the church. The tea’s long gone cold, but you haven’t moved. The way Pastor Eli sits — like someone who’s buried too many truths — draws the silence out until it begins to ache.

Then, his voice breaks the stillness.

“Do you want to know when I stopped asking God for morally acceptable solutions?”

You look up.

“I was barely twenty. Fresh out of seminary. More faith than sense. I came here to help Pastor Simmons — a black man, strong voice, Mississippi roots. He came north thinking Québec would be safer than Georgia.” A bitter smile. “He was wrong.”

He shifts in his chair, then leans forward. His hands are clasped tight.

“Frank’s father owned the land the church was built on. Most of Québec was papered in Patérno deeds by the '70s. And once a month, Frank would come collect the dues. He was on his late twenties then. Clean boots. Quiet mouth. Watching everything.”

You see the way Eli’s eyes fog, not with cold — with memory.

“One night I came late. Meant to drop off keys. Found Simmons out front. On the ground. Bleeding so hard I thought he was dying. Four cops had worked him over. Said he’d ‘interfered with an arrest.’ You know what that meant?”

You nod.

Eli exhales through his nose.

“He didn’t press charges. Said it would only get worse.”

You don’t ask what happened next. You already know the shape of this kind of story.

But Eli continues.

“Next morning, two of the officers were found stuffed into their patrol car. Guts like red scarves across the windshield. The third was in his backyard. Alive. Although at the state he was it would have served him better to be dead. With a note nailed to his chest.”

He swallows.

“It read: Don’t touch what’s under my roof again.”

There’s a long silence.

You whisper, “Frank?”

Eli shrugs. But it’s not indifference — it’s surrender.

“They never proved it. But everybody knew. Even the other cops started steering clear of our block. After that, Simmons preached three more decades. Died of old age in his own home.”

Your breath catches.

“You’re saying Frank protected you?”

“I’m saying,” Eli replies slowly, “that there are wolves in this world. Some tear flesh. Some keep worse wolves out.”

He looks you dead in the eye.

“Frank Patérno never once asked what color a man was. Didn’t care if you were Protestant, Catholic, Hindu, Muslim, atheist, gay or straight — if you were his, you were safe. If you crossed him…” He lets the sentence hang, then finishes softly. “You didn’t last long enough to do it twice.”

You feel your fingers tighten. The image of Frank’s face — those patient, molten eyes — swims up in your mind.

“But Pastor… doesn’t that make him a monster?”

Eli leans back and speaks slowly, like he’s quoting from memory.

“‘Woe unto those who call evil good.’ I’ve never called Frank good. But necessary?” His gaze hardens. “He was that, once.”

Then: “Maybe still is.”

You don’t speak.

You can’t.

Because in that moment, you realize — it’s not the blood on Frank’s hands that scares you.

It’s the way your heart is starting to understand it.

"The day I met Frank’s dad," Pastor Eli murmurs, "he had fresh blood on his hands. It stuck onto mine as we shook them."

You glance at him, unsure if you’ve heard right. But he goes on, calm as ever.

"They were sincere," he adds. "And never once pretended to be something they weren’t. I’ve had politicians ask me to endorse their campaigns, business owners make generous donations for tax write-offs… They all come smiling. But the mob? They came with their guns out. They didn’t lie. They didn’t flatter. There’s something to be said for that kind of honesty."

You nod slowly, your heart a strange mixture of chilled and comforted. And then—

Knock knock.

A light rap at the church office door. Pastor Eli straightens.

“Looks like your escort’s here.”

You turn.

The man standing at the threshold wears a gray wool coat, slim black gloves, and a smile so refined it could slice glass. His hair is slicked back, just a little too perfect. His features are angular — all sharp edges and stillness. There’s something reptilian in his composure, the way he stands too still, like he’s suppressing a more natural instinct.

“Miss,” he says, offering his hand with a theatrical little bow. “Mr. Patérno sends his regards.”

You shake his hand — reluctantly. His palm is soft, cold.

“I'm Nico,” he adds. “You may call me that.”

He glances around the office with a sniff, as if trying not to inhale the worn leather and dusty hymnals. His tone is polite — too polite.

“A charming place, this. How quaint.”

Eli narrows his eyes, but says nothing. You, meanwhile, are fighting the urge to recoil.

“Mr. Patérno thought you might want a lift back,” Nico continues. “And he asked me to bring you something.”

He produces a sleek black envelope from inside his coat and offers it to you with two fingers, like it might stain him.

As you reach for it, he studies you.

“Quite the little academic, aren’t you? Frank speaks very highly of you.”

His eyes scan you a moment too long.

You clear your throat. “Thank you.”

He smirks.

“My pleasure. I’m always delighted to see Mr. Patérno take an interest in education. Even when it involves… delicate company.”

“Delicate?” you repeat.

He chuckles. “I only mean… soft-hearted. The type that still sees the world as something to fix, rather than survive.”

You catch the glance he gives Eli — like he’s something beneath notice. A fly on a windowpane.

“Of course,” he adds with a smile that never touches his eyes, “I’m sure your research will be very enlightening.”

Your spine prickles. There’s something in his tone — an undercurrent of mockery.

Pastor Eli stands now. Taller than Nico. Older. But there’s a tension in the air now, sharp as electricity.

“Tell Frank,” Eli says quietly, “that if he wants her to keep writing, he best keep the snakes out of the garden.”

Nico blinks. Still smiling.

“I’ll be sure to pass on the sentiment.”

You clutch the envelope in your coat pocket. You don’t dare open it here.

But as Nico leads you out into the cold, you know — this man is not like Frank.

Frank may be brutal, even terrifying. But Nico is… hollow.

“Tesoro,” Frank’s voice is smooth, but there’s an edge under it — like he’s been thinking about this all day. “I’ve been considering our little… quarrel.”

You don’t answer right away. You just murmur, “It wasn’t a quarrel,” because admitting it would mean he won.

“I spoke to a man I know,” he continues, ignoring you. “A doctor. University type. Very dry. All tweed and spectacles. I explained your… situation. This problem with your integrity code.”

You sit up a little. “And?”

“And,” Frank says, drawing the word out, “he suggested something clever. Your complaint was that when people know you’re my girl, they act differently during interviews, yes?”

“Yes. That’s called bias—”

“Mm, sì, sì, bias. So… we remove the you from the interviews. No more face-to-face. No coffee chats in some cold factory office. No nervous men tripping over their words because they’re imagining me standing behind you.”

You frown. “You mean… surveys?”

“In a manner of speaking,” he says. “Written responses. Papers. Questionnaires dropped off, filled out, picked up. Same questions, same answers, but without your presence there to make them… behave differently.”

You think about it. “That’s not in my approved methodology, Frank.”

“Tesoro,” he says patiently, “this doctor — he told me these things can be changed. Your… how do you call it? Your protocol?”

“My research protocol,” you correct. “It’s the formal plan the ethics board approves before I start. It’s like… the recipe I promised I’d follow. If I change it, I have to ask permission.”

“Exactly. So I asked permission for you.”

Your head jerks up. “You what?”

“The board has approved the change. Effective immediately,” he says, as if he’s telling you the weather. “You’ll submit the questions in paper. They’ll answer without knowing you’re involved. Your precious bias problem? Gone.”

You grip the receiver tighter. “Frank… changing methodology in the middle of a study can affect—”

“Yes, sì, but your work will still be valid. And more importantly—” His voice drops into that deep, unhurried register that makes your pulse tick faster. “You won’t have to spend your days running around to every dirty corner of Quebec. You can be… comfortable. Safe.”

Safe. That word tastes like iron in your mouth.

He goes on, “I didn’t like knowing you were wasting hours in cold factories, getting stared at by men who think too much with their hands. Now you can stay here, send your papers out, and still get the same results. It’s better for you. For us.”

You realize he’s smiling on the other end. You can hear it.

“And all it took was a call,” he finishes softly. “One call, tesoro. That’s all.”

You press the receiver a little closer to your ear, feeling the tension in your shoulders ease.

“Thank you, Frank,” you murmur. “I… overreacted. I’m sorry I was upset.”

The silence that follows is warm, deliberate. You can almost see his expression even through the phone — the faint upward pull at the corner of his mouth, the way his eyes narrow when he’s pleased.

His next words roll out slow, like honey sliding off a spoon. “Guess what I have here on my lap… reminds me of you.”

You tilt your head. “…What’s in there?”

There’s a faint rustle, and then — he moves the phone away from his mouth just enough for you to hear it — a soft, rhythmic purr.

“Another cat?” you ask, already smiling despite yourself.

“Mmh.” He sounds smug. “Turkish Angora. Snow-white. Eyes like glass marbles — one blue, one green. Flawless.” His voice softens as though speaking about a jewel. “It’s a male, you know?”

You blink at the detail. “Does that make them… expensiver or something?”

“…No,” he says, almost amused. “But I believed you might want a little companion for that fluffy thing we have back home. I’m not one of those idiots who believe in… eugenics,” he scoffs, the word heavy with disdain. “But he’s the best pure breed I could find. I figured you’d want it.”

You pause, staring at the wall. “No thanks, Frank. Girls are more than breeding stock. And she’s still a kitten…”

Not that there was any doubt of it, but the kitten you had "found" on the street was planted by Frank, a tiny little gift, a reminder, an offering.

There’s a low hum on the other end — not quite disapproval, not quite agreement — just Frank processing in his own way. “Mm. As you wish, gattina.”

You imagine him leaning back in his chair, the new cat curled in his lap, his free hand stroking its fur the same way he’s stroked your hair — slow, proprietary, as though marking it as his.

And the bad thing is: you want him to stroke your fur again.

You want to curl up in the heavy scent of his cologne, your head under his jaw, knees tucked against him, listening to the scratch of his pen or the click of his lighter. You want to purr into his lap while he takes a call in Italian, his free hand idly smoothing down your hair as though your presence is the most natural thing in the world.

You want him to pull you onto his legs while he works, his gaze flicking between papers and your face, the occasional warm weight of his palm cupping your cheek mid-sentence. To be the soft thing in the room that only he gets to touch.

You like being the kitten. You like the warm, almost lazy possession of it — how he doesn’t even ask before shifting you closer, how he expects you to be there, draped over him like a favorite scarf.

But now…

Now you know the kind of man you’re dealing with.

The memory of the butchery will not leave you. The scream. The iron smell. His voice — the same one that calls you tesoro, the same one that can turn soft as velvet when he says your name — giving orders in the back room.

And suddenly the thought of his hand in your hair is double-edged. You can still feel the gentleness of it, the slow drag of his fingers, but now you can’t help seeing the same hand slick with blood.

The same lap you want to curl up on is the lap of a man who’s signed off on things you’ve only read about in court transcripts — things people like you were supposed to research, not witness.

It’s a split in your mind you don’t know how to close.

Because when he’s there, it’s easy to pretend.

When he’s there, you can forget that the expensive pen he’s holding might have been bought with money bled out of someone else’s life. You can ignore that the suit jacket brushing your arm was tailored in Italy by a man who’d never ask questions, because people who ask questions around Frank don’t last long enough to get answers.

When he’s there, you can just be the kitten.

But you’ve seen too much.

And you don’t know how much longer you can keep playing dumb without becoming part of whatever ledger he keeps in his head.

The guilt slides in quietly, the way the smell of smoke does when you’ve been standing too close to the fire for too long.

You’ve accepted gifts you now understand were paid for in blood. You’ve lived in a room that wouldn’t exist without someone else being told to move out. You’ve eaten meals bought with the same hand that handed out beatings.

And the worst part — the part that keeps you awake some nights — is that none of it is enough to make you pull away.

Because you like how he treats you.

Because in a world where everyone has wanted something from you, Frank seems to want only you.

Even if that means he keeps you the way other men keep rare paintings — somewhere private, where no one else can touch.

Even if you’re not sure anymore whether he sees you as a person or a possession.

You tell yourself you’re not naive. That you know the truth and can still make choices.

But lying in bed that night, your pillow faintly scented with cedar from the blanket he gave you, you realize something that chills you to your core:

You don’t want to stop being the kitten.

And if you stay, you’re not sure you ever will.

You knew the rule. Never come unless cited. That was the first lesson, spoken half like a joke, half like a command.

And yet here you are, in the doorway of his office, heart stuttering because he was supposed to still be in Sicily.

“Tesoro…” That smile — wide, dangerous, private — tells you he came back for reasons you’ll never know. He rises slowly from his desk, the smoke of his cigar curling like an aura.

“Come.”

You remember that morning, you weren’t expecting him.

One moment you were locking your door, the next there was a shadow across the hall, the faintest scent of his cologne — the kind that always made you feel like the air was thicker — and then him.

Frank.

Back from Sicily.

Your stomach lurched before your brain even caught up. Scared. Relieved. And, traitorously, that low, warm flicker pooling in your belly the way it always did when he looked at you like that.

He stepped closer. Each stride slow, measured, like he had all the time in the world and knew you’d wait for him. The closer he got, the more your breath shortened, the more the fear tangled with heat until you didn’t know which was which anymore.

When he finally reached you, his mouth curved, and he leaned in — not asking, never asking — and kissed you. The pressure was steady, not rough, but deep enough that you felt the certainty behind it.

Your arms went around him without thinking. You felt the faint scratch of stubble against your temple, the weight of him solid and warm in a way that made your knees want to give out.

It was almost… tender.

Almost.

Because underneath, your pulse was jumping like a rabbit in a snare, and the tight coil in your stomach was made of more than one kind of tension.

Scared. Horny. Melancholic.

When he finally pulled back, he murmured it low enough for only you to hear:

“Let’s go home, gattina.”

You nodded, because that was what you always did when he said it like that.

Frank rarely drove himself — that was what chauffeurs and drivers were for — but tonight, he opened the passenger door for you, then rounded the hood with the easy confidence of a man who didn’t need anyone else’s hands on the wheel.

The engine’s hum was steady, a quiet blanket over the sound of your breathing. And then his hand settled on your thigh.

Not a squeeze. Not a grope. Just his palm there, warm, heavy, reassuring in a way that was almost worse than if it had been suggestive. His thumb moved in slow arcs, rubbing over the fabric like he was reminding himself you were real.

Soothing.

Calm.

And you sat there, staring out the windshield at the city lights blurring past, trying not to think about how your body leaned into his touch even as your mind whispered all the reasons you shouldn’t.

Trying not to think about Sicily. Or the butchery. Or the way the same hands that touched you like this had done… other things.

Trying not to think about what “home” meant when it was his word and not yours.

You obey before thinking. He doesn’t have to raise his voice. He never does. By the time he lowers himself back into his leather chair, you’re already perched where he wants you — his lap, as if the seat was carved for two. You don’t fight it anymore. His hands guide you only lightly, a courtesy more than a force.

“Bravissima,” he murmurs, brushing your hair off your forehead with fingers that still smell faintly of tobacco and cedar. “This is where you belong.”

On the table before you: packages. Expensive paper, satin ribbons, the weight of unnecessary luxury. He takes his time, like a magician unveiling tricks.

A silk scarf in colors too rich for ordinary light. A first-edition book, annotated in the margins by a dead scholar you once cited in your master’s thesis. A small jewelry case, which he doesn’t open, but presses into your hand like a secret.

“From Palermo,” he explains, voice low and smooth, “I thought of you each time I saw them.”

You want to say something sharp, something about how you didn’t ask for any of it — but when his arm tightens around your waist, when he inhales against your hair as if breathing you steadies him, the words dissolve.

“Did you miss me, gattina?”

It isn’t a question. It’s a ritual, like the gifts, like the lap, like the way he never lets you walk into his office on your own two feet.

And then — he leans close enough that his breath warms your ear.

“You shouldn’t look so surprised,” he says. “When I want something, I don’t wait. I come back for it.”

You shouldn’t be surprised anymore, and yet you are. Frank doesn’t just hand over gifts. He performs them.

The first box is long and narrow, the kind that makes you think of chocolates or opera gloves. He unties the satin ribbon himself, slow, as if savoring the sound of fabric sliding against itself.

Then, instead of discarding it, he coils the ribbon loosely around your wrist.

“Bellissima,” he murmurs, tugging it just tight enough to hold. His eyes gleam with some idea he doesn’t share. He leaves the bow uneven, dangling down your arm like a tether, and sits back, content with his little invention.

You should pull it off. You don’t.

“Go on,” he says, nodding toward the paper, but his hands don’t leave yours. He guides your fingers, unfolding the wrapping with exaggerated gentleness, like a child being taught how to open a present on Christmas morning without tearing the paper.

Inside: a scarf the color of dusk, some silk so smooth it feels like water running through your hands. Before you can react, he drapes it across your shoulders, adjusting it like he’s dressing a doll. His palm brushes your collarbone once, twice, too deliberately to be casual.

“You wear luxury the way other girls wear plain cloth,” he says, settling you deeper into his lap. “As if it belongs there.”

The second package is heavier — a book. He doesn’t let you unwrap this one alone either. Instead, he flips it open to a page already marked, his thumb stroking the brittle margin where an old hand had scrawled notes.

“Do you recognize it?” he asks.

You do. It’s a rare edition of a text you cited in your master’s thesis. You whisper the title before you can stop yourself, and he chuckles, pleased.

“You see?” His eyes crinkle with that secret pride, the kind he shows only when you demonstrate your mind. “I know what makes you purr.”

The word makes you flush. He catches it, of course, because he always does.

The last gift is the smallest: a velvet case. He presses it into your hand but doesn’t open it. You hesitate. He watches. Finally, with a breath, you click it open to reveal a delicate brooch — gold, understated, shaped like a tiny lily.

“Lilies for my scholar,” he says softly. “Because you think you’re plain, but you bloom wherever you’re planted.”

The words make your chest ache, and you hate him for it.

You twist your wrist to loosen the ribbon. “Why did you do this?”

He raises a brow, feigning innocence. “Do what?”

“The ribbon,” you say. “Why tie it on me?”

For a heartbeat, something sharp flickers across his face, then vanishes under that lazy half-smile. He takes your hand, fingers playing with yours, stroking each one as if cataloging them.

“Because it amused me,” he says finally, his tone airy, dismissive. “A whim. Nothing more.”

But you know better. Frank doesn’t do whims. He’s never casual. Every gesture has weight, every gift an edge.

“You look like you don’t believe me.” He lifts your hand, kisses the tips of your fingers, one by one. The ribbon flutters with the movement, bright against your skin. “But what does it matter? A ribbon is a ribbon. A toy.”

He leans in, nose brushing your temple. “Unless my kitten wants it to be more.”

Your pulse stutters. You open your mouth, close it again. He doesn’t press. Instead, he cups the back of your head and guides it down to his chest, like settling a child after a tantrum. His heartbeat is slow, steady, terrifyingly calm.

“Don’t think too much,” he says. “I do the thinking. You — you unwrap the gifts. You wear the ribbons. You let me see those clever little hands stained with silk and ink instead of blood.”

And with that, he lets you sit in silence, his thumb lazily stroking the back of your bound wrist, as though he’s already decided what to do with the idea he hasn’t spoken aloud.

The ribbon still circled your wrist, a harmless loop of satin. But Frank’s thumb kept tracing it, as if measuring its strength.

“You know why I like ribbons?” he asked suddenly, his voice low, conversational, like he was musing about the weather.

You shook your head, unsure if you wanted the answer.

“They’re soft,” he said. “They don’t bite into skin. A ribbon doesn’t bruise. A ribbon leaves no trace unless you want it to.”

He lifted your wrist, tightening the loop ever so slightly. Not enough to hurt. Just enough for you to feel the way it could hold if he pulled.

“Your hands,” he murmured, turning your palm up and brushing his lips against it, “are too pretty for rope. Too delicate. I wouldn’t dare put leather or chain here.” His teeth grazed your knuckle, gentle but suggestive. “But satin? Satin is kind. Satin lets me keep you safe while I keep you mine.”

The words made your stomach twist. You should’ve pulled back. But his grip wasn’t even tight — it was barely there, more promise than restraint.

“Frank…” you whispered, not sure if it was plea or protest.

He smiled, that slow, wolfish smile. “Don’t worry, tesoro. Not tonight. Tonight, the ribbon is just a ribbon.” He loosened it again, letting the ends fall free. “But one day, when my kitten is ready…”

He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to. The image was already in your mind: silk binding your wrists, his steady hands knotting the bow.

And the most terrifying part was not the thought of being tied.

You don’t remember falling asleep, but you remember the warmth of his hand pulling the blanket over your shoulder. The whisper of “rest, gattina.”

Now you’re alone in the guest room.

You wash your face. Brush your teeth. The water from the gold-accented tap smells faintly of mint. There’s a toothbrush already unwrapped for you, laid out beside your face towel. Slippers at the foot of the bed. The robe fits like it had been tailored before you ever tried it on.

Even your own parents hadn’t taken care of you like this. Not after the money disappeared.

When you come down the stairs, Frank is already dressed. He wears charcoal and gold this morning — a three-piece suit with a deep gray coat he hasn’t buttoned yet. There’s a cup of espresso in his hand and a folded newspaper by his side, unopened.

He looks up when he hears you. The smile spreads like sunlight under storm clouds.

“There she is.”

He’s seated in one of those massive leather chairs by the window — old, high-backed, probably cost more than your monthly stipend — but when you walk closer, he spreads his knees just slightly and pats one thigh.

“Come.”

It’s not a command, but it’s not not one either.

You hesitate for a moment. Just long enough for his brow to raise, amused. Confused.

“What?” he says softly. “You look like I just asked you to bark.”

You roll your eyes — a tiny rebellion — and step forward. He’s warm. Solid. One arm circles your waist the moment you settle. His other hand sets the espresso aside.

“See?” he murmurs, his voice at your neck. “That’s better. This is where you belong.”

Your heart shouldn’t flutter like it does.

He reaches for something on the side table — a box. Velvet. Square. He places it in your hands with reverence, as if it’s a ring, though it’s too large for that.

“Open it.”

Inside: a key. Gold-plated. Polished until you can see your reflection warp in it.

“Your apartment,” he says. “A proper place. Closer to the university. Private. Warm. Yours.”

He kisses your temple.

“You’ll be safe there.”

He doesn’t say safe from what. And you don’t ask.

“A pretty little playhouse for a pretty little kitten,” he says, brushing a knuckle against your jaw, the same way someone might coax a purring animal to tilt its head.

“Don’t worry. It’s all furnished. I even left books on the shelf, some of them in your mother tongue. Had them flown in.”

You blink at the key in your palm. It feels heavier now. Not because of weight — because of what it unlocks.

He notices. His head tilts slightly. The smile dims, just a fraction. Then his voice drops into that low register again — velvet wrapped in iron.

“What do we say, tesoro?”

You look up, dazed, trained.

“…Thank you.”

He nods. Pleased.

Then, as he sips the espresso he left cooling just to touch you:

“I have to go to Sicily for a few weeks. Maybe a month.”

He doesn’t look at you when he says it — he’s turning a page of the paper, though you doubt he’s reading.

“I need you to behave while I’m gone, sì?”

You nod.

Too quickly.

“Why do you go away?” you ask, because the silence that follows tastes worse than any answer he could give.

That’s when he finally looks at you again.

His gaze lingers. A beat too long.

He closes the newspaper without reading a word. Leans forward just slightly so your foreheads nearly touch.

“Because I’m the only man in the room who can say no to people who think they deserve a yes.”

The words feel old. Worn smooth by repetition.

He smiles faintly — not at you, but at some memory that has nothing to do with you — and brushes your hair back behind your ear.

“You don’t need to worry about where I’m going.”

“Just keep being good.”

“I’ll come back with something nice.”

He always does.

But for the first time… you wonder what he’ll bring back besides gifts.

He unlocks the door himself, holds it open with the theatrical patience of a man used to being watched, even when no one’s looking. The foyer gleams in beige marble, soft gold hardware, and that indistinct, expensive smell of quiet wealth. Your heels click against the floor like punctuation marks. Everything is pristine.

“This is the living room,” he says as if you couldn’t tell. “Books in Italian, French, English. Leather-bound. Some signed. Read them or don’t, I won’t be mad.”

You nod. He walks you through the kitchen, the sunroom, the oversized bathroom with a tub that could fit four. Every time you slow down, he’s right behind you. A hand on your lower back. A graze of your shoulder. Fingers brushing your wrist just to remind you: you are his.

He leads you upstairs, fingers curled around yours with something between pride and possession.

“And this…” he opens the last door like a magician revealing a trick. “This is yours.”

The bedroom is airy, soft. Not decadent. No, it’s… thoughtful. Feminine without being childish. Pale linens, a vanity, a reading nook. The window opens to a view of spruce trees and faint mountain air. There are already hangers in the closet. Your size.

“Be a doll,” he murmurs as he walks behind you, pressing his hands lightly to your waist, his lips now at your temple, “…and make sure to call me, hm? I want to know how you’re doing.”

His hands grip gently. Not rough. Not yet. You feel his breath in your hair. “Don’t worry about surveillance. There’s only one camera, outside the house... hidden... but it was so tempting—so tempting—to fill this place with cameras. So I’d always know what my little kitten’s doing while I’m away.”

You can’t tell if the word tempting was a joke or a threat.

He draws you flush against him.

His gaze settles heavy on yours. Searching. Like he’s trying to memorize every inch of your face in case it changes without him.

You lean up, and instead of the kiss he’s waiting for, you press your lips to the bridge of his nose.

A silly, sweet gesture.

He stills.

Then that laugh—deep, amused, delighted in a way that makes something low in your stomach twist.

He wraps his arms around you tighter.

“Ah, gattina. You’ll ruin me.”

And for a second, you almost believe he’d let you.

He lets you kiss him again. Once. Twice. Then again, this time closer to the corner of his mouth. You feel the smile stretch under your lips, subtle and smug, but softened in a way that almost makes him seem… bashful.

Almost.

He tilts his head just enough to give you space, as if amused by your insistence—but not stopping you. Never stopping you. His hand cradles the back of your neck now, warm and slow.

When you pull back, his eyes are heavier than before. Drowsy with pleasure.

“Mmm. You’re going to spoil me,” he murmurs, voice husky and velvet-rich. “So many little kisses. Like a kitten playing with something she doesn’t know is dangerous.”

You stay there a moment longer, your hands resting lightly on the lapels of his coat, his scent thick in your nose.

Then you whisper it—almost shyly, like a child asking why the moon follows the car:

“Why do you leave?”

Something in him shifts. You feel it more than see it.

The smile doesn’t vanish. But it cools.

He lets go of your neck slowly and adjusts his cufflinks, as if preparing himself to return to the world of men who don't get kissed on the cheek in sun-dappled bedrooms.

“I have to,” he says simply.

He steps away, just enough to breathe without you against him.

“There are certain… obligations. Sicily is business, nothing more.”

A pause.

“Don’t look at me like that, tesoro. I’m not going off to war.”

Another pause.

“…Though, in a way, I suppose I am.”

He glances at you now, eyes sharp and unreadable.

And again, he cups your jaw like you’re the most delicate thing he’s ever touched. A fine vase. A sleeping dove. Something fragile, and his.

“You’ll be here. Warm. Safe. Cared for.”

Then, softer:

“I’ll come back to you.”

“You’re good at waiting.”

“You’ll wait for me, won’t you?”

His thumb strokes your cheek.

He lets you bury yourself into him. His arms come around you, steady, quiet—unshakable. Like stone warmed by the sun.

You breathe him in, let your forehead rest against his collarbone. The silk of his shirt, the faint scent of tobacco and citrus and something darker beneath—old leather, maybe. Or smoke. Or fire.

He strokes your back with slow, deliberate hands, like he’s soothing a spooked animal.

“You look sad,” he murmurs against your hair, not asking—just observing, with that peculiar sharpness of his.

You nod against his chest. The words are there. All the words you’ll never say.

"I will miss you, Frank."

You don’t say why.

You don’t say: Because I finally understand who you are. Because it was easier when I could pretend you were only dangerous in the abstract, in the whispers. Because you have blood under your fingernails and I let you feed me with those hands.

You don’t say: Because I’m afraid that when you come back, I’ll love you more. Not less.

Instead, you hold him tighter.

There’s a moment—small, barely noticeable—when you feel his breath pause. Just for a second. Like your words reached something raw inside him.

Then he exhales and kisses the top of your head.

Once. Firm. Possessive.

“You say that like I won’t be back,” he murmurs. “I always come back. Especially when someone’s waiting.”

He takes your chin in his fingers, tilting your face up until your eyes meet. His expression is calm. Too calm.

“You will wait for me, won’t you?”

You nod.

That’s all he needs.

“Brava.”

He presses a final kiss to your forehead, lingering.