She goes quiet.
I don’t tell her the rest, that when I imagine that future, she’s there too. Standing beside me, throwing galas, looking beautiful, filling the hollow places I’ve carried for years. I don’t say how much I want her laughter in those dark spaces, or her softness to balance everything I’ve become.
She’s still silent, looking down at her drink.
“That sounds like a big responsibility,” she says.
I cough. “No shit. If I take over, I’ll run half the West Coast. I’ll be rich and powerful. We might meet someday, if you develop a drug habit. Or not.”
“I just don’t know what to say,” she admits. “Because the idea of you in that world… scares me. But also…” She trails off, eyes glistening faintly. “I wish I’ll still be part of your life. Even if it’s just a small part. Maybe you’ll come to my charity events when I’m an event planner, and we’ll see each other from across theroom. You’ll pretend not to know me, but you will. And we’ll never really be rid of each other.”
My heart clenches. I smile, but it feels bittersweet. “I’d like that. To never be rid of you.”
It aches to know how much I mean it. Every conversation with Callista deepens the knowing inside me. That our connection, our time together means something.
She relaxes me. With her, I don’t have to be a genius, don’t have to impress or get results or solve complex problems. I can be myself. Talk about mundane things, act like a man instead of a future pakhan.
She blushes, glancing down, fumbling in her bag for something to hide her expression.
The air between us thickens, too much and not enough all at once. Neither of us can confront the truth. Not yet. Being a fake couple seems safe, especially when the emotions are so strong. I’m afraid I might drown in them and forget myself if I give in. I’m not used to feeling so strongly. This isn’t rational. This isn’t like anything I’ve known before.
Yet, the desire to hold her, to see her again, to talk to her, is a constant voice in my brain, drowning out everything else.
Callista finally pulls out her phone and opens a photo. “You’re meeting my family this weekend, so you should at least know their faces.”
On the screen is a perfectly posed family portrait. She lays it on the table so I can get a better view.
“That’s my stepmother,” she says, her tone clipped. “She’s cold and greedy. Married my dad for his money and status. Then there’s Selina—she’s the golden child. Shallow, self-absorbed, she thinks the world revolves around her. And that’s Andrew. He’s the youngest. He’s ten, already a bully. My stepmother covers up his messes so my dad never finds out.”
I study the photo. “The way you describe them makes your feelings clear.”
“I can’t wait to graduate, find a job, and never see them again.” She lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Once I’m independent, I’ll never have to pretend again.”
“Won’t you be lonely?”
Her fingers move to the ends of her hair, twisting the strands around her finger. “Maybe. But someday, I’ll make my own family. That way I’ll never have to go back to them. I’ll have people who actually want me around. A husband, kids… someone to spend holidays with.”
Her voice softens, and something fragile flickers across her face. I watch her twist that golden strand again and again, like she’s winding hope around her finger.
“What would that family look like?” I ask. I don’t know why I’m asking, but I want to know.
She smiles, faint but dreamy. “A loving husband. Someone who’s protective and loyal. He’ll kiss me good morning every day and never make me feel like I’m too much or not enough. We’ll have a big kitchen, maybe two or three kids. They’ll make noise all the time, and I’ll complain, but I’ll love it. I want our house to always be full of laughter.”
As she speaks, the image forms in my mind too easily. Her arms wrapped around small children. Her hair loose and glowing in the light. Her belly round with another child, the way her hands would instinctively cradle the life inside her.
It shouldn’t hit me this hard.
But the thought of her—soft, maternal, smiling—lodges in my chest.
And I want it. I want her.
“I want that kind of family too,” I hear myself say.
Her eyes lift, wide and searching. “Really? Is that even allowed in the mafia? To have a normal, happy family?”
A small growl escapes me before I can stop it. “I can bend the rules a little.”
She laughs, teasing. “What kind of wife would you have, then? Someone Russian, connected to a powerful family?”
