Ezra's POV
The wire is recording my guilt.
I can feel it on my wrist—Marco's gift turned into my weapon. Every tick of the second hand reminds me I'm betraying him. Every breath I take is captured, stored, catalogued as evidence.
Marco returns three hours after he left. I'm sitting on the couch, pretending to read, actually spiraling into panic about whoever's investigating us.
Did you find them? I ask the moment he walks in.
Dante's handling it. Marco's voice is tight, controlled. He pours himself whiskey with hands that shake slightly. Turns out it was a private investigator hired by Luca Santoro.
Who's that?
My father's underboss. Also my biggest rival for succession. Marco downs the whiskey in one gulp. He's been looking for proof our relationship is fake so he can discredit me with the other families.
My stomach drops. Did he find anything?
Not yet. Dante convinced him to stop looking. The way Marco says 'convinced' makes it clear violence was involved. But it's a reminder that we're being watched. By everyone.
He's worried. Actually worried. And the wire is recording every word of this conversation—evidence that our relationship is a lie, that we're both in danger, that the Vitale family is fractured.
Victoria will love this.
The thought makes me nauseous.
You should eat something, I say, desperate to change the subject. I can make dinner.
Marco looks at me like I just offered him the moon. You cook?
Badly. But I try.
His smile is small and genuine. Okay. Let's see what you've got.
We end up making pasta together in his massive kitchen. Marco moves with easy confidence, showing me how to properly dice garlic, how to tell when the water's ready. His hand covers mine when I'm stirring the sauce, guiding my movements.
The wire records everything. Our laughter when I accidentally splash sauce on his shirt. His patient instructions. The comfortable silence that settles between us.
Not a single word about crime. Nothing about drugs or murders or illegal operations. Just two people cooking dinner like normal couples do.
Where'd you learn to cook? I ask, watching him add herbs with practiced ease.
My mother. His voice softens. Before she died, she used to make Sunday dinners. Said that no matter how bad the world got, family should always eat together. He tastes the sauce, adds more salt. It's one of the few good memories I have of her.
How old were you when she died?
Eight. He doesn't look at me. Car accident, officially. But I think my father had her killed.
The casual way he says it—like discussing the weather—makes my chest ache.
Why would he do that?
Because she wanted to leave him. Take me and Lucia somewhere safe. Marco's jaw tightens. My father doesn't let people leave. Ever.
The wire captures this confession, but it's not evidence of Marco's crimes. It's evidence of his pain. His trauma. The monster who raised him.
Victoria wanted proof Marco is dangerous. Instead, I'm recording proof he's human.
We eat dinner on the couch, some cooking show playing on TV. Marco asks about my research, genuinely interested in my thesis about economic systems. I ask about his business degree from Princeton, and he admits he hated every second.
My father chose my major, my courses, my career path. I never got a say in any of it.
What would you have studied if you could choose?
He's quiet for a long moment. Music, maybe. Or literature. Something beautiful instead of useful.
You like beautiful things?
I'm not allowed to like beautiful things. His eyes find mine. But I do anyway.
The way he looks at me when he says it makes my heart stutter.
The wire records the silence that follows. Records my breathing speeding up. Records the moment Marco sets down his plate and turns to face me fully.
Ezra, I need to tell you something.
My pulse spikes. Okay.
Something I've never said out loud to anyone. He's nervous—actually nervous. Marco Vitale, who kills without hesitation, is scared of these words. And I need you to just... listen. Can you do that?
Yes.
The wire is recording. Every word he says will go straight to the FBI. I should stop him, should find a way to warn him, but my voice won't work.
Marco takes a breath like he's diving underwater.
I'm gay.
Three words. Simple. Devastating.
I've known since I was thirteen, he continues, words tumbling out now like a dam breaking. But in my family, in my world, being gay is a death sentence. My father had his own cousin beaten to death for 'deviant behavior' when I was fifteen. I watched it happen. Understood the message loud and clear.
Marco
So I buried it. Pretended it didn't exist. Convinced myself I could just... not be that person. His laugh is broken. Then you stumbled into that warehouse, terrified and innocent, and when I looked at you, I felt something I'd been denying my entire life.
My heart hammers against my ribs. The wire captures every beat.
That's why I saved you, Marco says. Not because you were useful or because I had some master plan. I saved you because looking at you made me remember I was human. That there was a part of me my father couldn't kill no matter how hard he tried.
Why are you telling me this now?
Because I'm tired of lying. His hand reaches out, hovering near my face but not touching. We're already pretending to be together for my father, for the families, for survival. But when we're alone, when it's just us, I don't want to pretend anymore.
What are you saying?
Marco's eyes hold mine—vulnerable, terrified, hopeful.
I'm saying I want this to be real. At least in private. No more performance, no more acting like we're strangers who got forced together. His hand finally touches my face, gentle and careful. I'm asking if you'd consider actually being with me. For real.
The wire records my sharp intake of breath. Records the moment my world tilts sideways.
This is manipulation, I tell myself. Exactly what Victoria warned about. He's making me sympathize, making me care, so I'll be easier to control.
But his hand is shaking against my cheek. His eyes are wet with tears he won't let fall. This doesn't feel like manipulation.
It feels like confession. Like truth. Like someone drowning and reaching for air.
I don't know if I can do this, I whisper.
I know it's asking a lot. I know you didn't choose any of this. Marco's thumb strokes my cheekbone. But I've spent my whole life being what my father wanted, doing what he ordered, killing who he told me to kill. And I'm so tired, Ezra. So tired of being his weapon instead of a person.
What if I say no?
Then we keep pretending. Keep the boundaries clear. I'll respect whatever you choose. His smile is sad. But I had to ask. Had to know if maybe, possibly, you felt even a fraction of what I'm feeling.
The question hangs between us.
Do I feel something? Beyond fear, beyond survival instinct, beyond the wire recording every word—do I actually feel something for Marco Vitale?
I think about his gentleness despite the violence. His sadness despite the power. The way he looks at me like I matter, like I'm more than just a problem to solve.
I think about the gun in his hand and the blood on his collar.
I think about his mother's cooking and his dreams of studying beautiful things.
Monster and man, all tangled together in one impossible person.
Okay, I breathe. We can try. For real.
Marco's entire face transforms—hope lighting him up from inside.
Yeah?
Yeah.
He leans in slowly, giving me time to pull away. When I don't, his lips meet mine—soft, tentative, nothing like the performances for his father or the cameras.
This kiss is just for us.
The wire records it all. Records the moment I kiss him back. Records my small sound of surprise when his hand tangles in my hair. Records how we break apart breathing hard, foreheads pressed together.
Thank you, Marco whispers against my mouth.
For what?
For seeing me. Not the heir, not the killer, not the weapon. Just... me.
I should feel guilty. Should remember I'm betraying him with every recorded second. Should pull away and maintain distance like Victoria ordered.
Instead, I kiss him again.
Later, we lie on opposite ends of the couch, some movie neither of us is watching playing on the screen. Marco's hand finds mine in the space between us, fingers intertwining like it's natural.
Can I ask you something? he says quietly.
Sure.
That day at the library. Were you gone longer than two hours?
My blood turns to ice. What?
You said you ran into a classmate. But when I checked with building security, you were only in the library for forty minutes. His thumb traces my knuckles—gentle, casual, terrifying. Where were you for the other hour and twenty minutes?
The wire is recording. My panic is recording. The lie I'm about to tell is recording.
I went for coffee after, I say, trying to keep my voice steady. Sat in a café and worked on my notes. Lost track of time.
Which café?
I don't remember the name. Why does it matter?
Marco sits up, his eyes searching my face in the dim light.
Because someone approached you today. I can see it in your eyes—the fear, the guilt, the way you won't quite look at me. His voice is soft but relentless. Who was it, Ezra? Who talked to you?
Nobody. You're being paranoid.
I'm being careful. There's a difference. He reaches for my wrist—the one with the watch—and my heart stops. This watch. The one I gave you. Can I see it?
Why?
Just curious. Want to see if it's keeping time properly.
He's going to find the wire. He's going to discover I'm FBI, that I've been recording him, that every word we just shared was captured as evidence.
He's going to kill me.
I pull my hand back. It's fine. Works perfectly.
Marco's eyes narrow. Then why won't you let me see it?
Because you're acting crazy! Accusing me of lying, demanding to inspect gifts you gave me—
Ezra. His voice cuts through my panic. If someone approached you today, if someone threatened you or tried to use you against me, I need to know. Right now.
The wire records my silence. Records my fear. Records the moment our fragile trust shatters.
Nobody approached me, I lie.
Marco stares at me for a long moment. Then he stands, grabs his phone, and makes a call.
Dante? I need you to pull security footage from Northwestern campus. Today, between noon and three. Every camera within a block of the library. He pauses, listening. Yes, I'm sure. Do it now.
He hangs up and looks at me.
If you're lying, I'll find out. If someone got to you, if you're in danger, I'll fix it. His voice is hard now, the softness from earlier completely gone. But Ezra? If you're betraying me, if you're working with someone against my family...
He doesn't finish.
He doesn't need to.
The wire records the threat hanging in the air.
Records the moment I realize Marco Vitale isn't just a man who wants to be better.
He's also still his father's son.
And if he finds out about the FBI, about Victoria, about the wire on my wrist—
I'm already dead.