Not because he recognizes me.But because last night’s storm is still between us, humming in the air.
His jaw flexes. His hand drifts toward his collar—that unconscious, irritated gesture he makes when he feels too much. When control slips through his fingers.
I adjust my posture just slightly—more demure, more harmless, more “good girl.”
Let him underestimate me.
Pretending I don’t feel that stare burning across my skin.Pretending he isn’t already unraveling.Pretending I didn’t crawl into his head last night and strike a match.
He watches me like he wants answers.Or maybe he wants to drag me out of this hall and demand them.
Either way, he’s watching.
And that means the mask is working.
When the prayer ends and the room murmurs amen, I allow myself the smallest smile.
Innocent. Sweet. Forgettable.
Except to him.Especially to him.
His stare burns hotter.
Good.
Let him choke on the lie. Let him think I’m harmless.
Because in this room full of believers, I’m the only one who sees clearly.
And I didn’t come here to be saved.I came here to steal.
Studying the Heir in the Collar
The coordinator’s voice fades into the background noise almost immediately.She’s rambling about community outreach, cleaning schedules, and which color-coded clipboard means what. Half the room nods along like any of this shit matters. The rest are too old or too timid to question it.
I pretend to care.
I angle my body so it looks like I’m focused on the whiteboard, pen in hand, packet open to the page she’s pointing at.
But I’m not looking at the board. I’m looking at him.
Santino stands near the back of the hall, just right of the double doors, guarding the exit like this is a war zone instead of a volunteer orientation. He doesn’t sit. Doesn’t lean. Doesn’t blend. He holds himself like a man on duty—because he is. Whether he admits it.
He doesn’t smile.Not at the coordinator’s awkward jokes.Not at the nervous new volunteers.Not even at the soft-eyed grandmothers who look at him like he’s a holy son.
He watches.
It isn’t compassion.It’s a calculation.
He studies the room the way men in my world study a negotiation—tracking hand movements, posture, restless energy. I’ve seen underbosses do it. I’ve seen killers do it.
Santino does it better.
His gaze is slow, and intentional. Cataloguing. Assessing. Cataloguing again.
He doesn’t trust anyone here.
Good. I don’t either.
