Soft target, sharp warning
Amara could feel it before she saw it.
That strange tension in the air. Like something was off-kilter. Like the city had exhaled, and everything was holding its breath.
The next morning started normal—if "normal" was waking up in a penthouse with a man who ran a criminal empire and made her feel like the world stopped when he looked at her.
She had coffee. Roman sat across from her reading something on his tablet. Silent. Focused. Still shirtless from sleep.
But she noticed the shift.
The stiffness in his jaw. The way he tapped twice against the glass of his cup like a habit.
"What's wrong?" she asked.
He didn't look up. "Nothing you need to worry about."
Her eyes narrowed. "Roman…"
Finally, he set the tablet down.
"There's chatter," he said. "Small. But unusual."
"Chatter?"
"Someone's been asking questions about you."
Her stomach dropped. "Me?"
He nodded once. "Your name. Where you work. Your family. Nothing specific yet, but enough for my people to notice."
Amara leaned back. "Is this because of you?"
He didn't answer.
She already knew.
---
Roman insisted she take a different car home that day. One with a bulletproof shell and a driver named Micah who didn't smile.
She hated it. Hated the attention. Hated how her life was changing without her permission.
But most of all, she hated how *safe* it felt—how knowing Roman would go that far for her twisted something in her chest.
When she got home, her apartment felt too quiet.
Too exposed.
She didn't sleep.
---
The next day, she arrived early to teach her afternoon art class at a youth center in Queens. Kids filtered in, full of energy and paint-stained fingers.
But she noticed a man near the exit. Leaning casually against the wall. Watching.
Not a parent. Not a volunteer.
Just watching.
Her instincts screamed.
She didn't say anything. Didn't panic. But she slipped into the hallway and texted Roman.
*AMARA:* Someone's watching the center. Tall. Black coat. Gray hoodie underneath. Doesn't look like a parent.
*ROMAN:* Stay inside. Don't leave with the kids. I'm sending someone.
*AMARA:* Roman.
*ROMAN:* I'm on my way.
Fifteen minutes later, the man was gone.
Twenty minutes later, Roman arrived.
In a suit. In broad daylight. Like the world couldn't touch him.
He didn't speak to anyone—just walked straight into the classroom and found her.
The moment their eyes met, her breath hitched. His face was hard. Focused.
He pulled her into the supply room and shut the door.
"Did he talk to you?"
"No."
"Touch you?"
"No."
Roman's hands fisted at his sides. "This is how it starts."
Her voice was low. "You think someone's targeting me to get to you."
"I *know* they are."
"Then maybe I shouldn't be around you."
That hit him. Harder than she meant it to.
His voice dropped. "If they're watching you, it's not just because of *me*. It's because they think you *matter* to me."
Amara looked up, eyes shining with emotion she couldn't name.
"Do I?"
Roman stared at her, jaw tight. Then, after a long pause: "Yes."
The silence between them crackled like electricity.
"You could walk away," he said quietly. "Tonight. I'd make sure you're safe. Hide you. Change your name. You'd never see me again."
"And if I don't?"
His eyes met hers.
"Then I protect you with everything I have. Even if it costs me everything."
Amara stepped closer. "Then stop trying to scare me off."
He didn't move.
She reached for his hand. "You think I don't know this is dangerous? That I haven't been waking up wondering if you're worth it?"
Roman flinched.
"You are," she said. "You are worth the fear. But you have to let me *be* afraid and still choose this."
He looked at her like she'd just cracked something open inside him.
Then he kissed her.
Not soft this time.
Not careful.
This kiss was heat and desperation. It was everything he couldn't say. Everything she had refused to run from. His hands were in her hair. Hers were gripping the lapels of his jacket.
And when they pulled apart, breathless, she whispered, "Take me home."
Roman didn't hesitate.
---
Later that night, Roman sat in his private office, the lights low, Amara asleep in his bed for the first time.
Victor entered, quiet.
"She's strong," Victor said. "But this isn't going away."
"I know."
"They've been quiet too long. Someone wants a war."
Roman's voice was ice. "Then they'll get one."
Victor hesitated. "And her?"
Roman looked out the window.
"She's mine now."
A beat.
"Anyone who touches her dies."
---
Far across the city, in a hidden room behind a poker club, Enzo Viteri poured himself a drink and looked over photos spread across a table.
One was of Amara, standing outside the youth center.
Another—of her holding Roman's hand
Far across the city, in a hidden room behind a poker club, *Enzo Viteri* poured himself a drink and looked over photos spread across a table.
One was of *Amara*, standing outside the youth center.
Another—of her holding *Roman's* hand as they walked through a hotel lobby.
A younger man stood beside Enzo, watching carefully. "So it's true then? Roman's got a weakness."
Enzo took a long sip, eyes never leaving the photos. "Not a weakness," he said calmly. "A *target*."
He tapped the photo of Amara.
"Find out everything about her. Family. Friends. Every place she's ever stepped foot in. If Roman Casso wants to play like a civilian, we'll remind him what game he's really in."
The younger man nodded and stepped out.
Enzo stared at the photo in silence, a slow smile forming.
"It's always the girl," he whispered.
---