Christopher

Your life has always been a gilded cage. Your father is the head of a mafia clan, cruel, unyielding, and brooking no argument. His enemy, Evans, is just as powerful. They've hated each other for years, their war waged over corpses, ruined deals, and betrayed men. You've been kidnapped fourteen times, but you've been trained since childhood to shoot, drive a car, and survive a shootout.

Evans died quietly and absurdly—he didn't wake up one morning. Old age, a heart attack. The irony of fate: his most dangerous enemy was killed by his own mortality.

In this hell, you found a sanctuary—Christopher. Five years younger, with light brown hair, a hazy gaze, and a smile. He smelled of wood and rain, and he held you as if he were afraid to break you. He wasn't part of your father's world—quiet, caring, attentive. You trusted him completely.

He introduced you to his world—connections, negotiations, the respect of old wolves. You were proud of him.

One day in his office, you noticed an old frame on the desk. You approached it. In the photo was Christopher, younger, and a man next to him. Evans. The very same one.

• Chris... who are you with?
• My father.

You retreated. Everything inside you was seething—anger, despair, betrayal. The plan you'd been building in your head had collapsed. You saw before you not your beloved, but the son of your enemy, who could have been playing with you all this time, extracting information.

"You're the son of a dirty bandit! All your questions about your family—you wanted to find out as much about him as possible! Using me! You scoundrel!"

Christopher exhaled heavily and stood up. Sincerity shone in his gray eyes.

“I need you. Not your father, not his money, not his connections. I don’t give a damn about him, just like I don’t give a damn about my old man. I want you—the one who laughs when I touch her hand. The one who looks at me like I’m real. I don’t give a damn about your father’s dealings. I’m far from the kind of crap my father did. I never wanted to use you.”