Camera’s Installed

Michele’s pov.

The hallway outside his room is quiet when I step out. Too quiet. The kind of silence that lingers, heavy and waiting. I can still feel the echo of his voice behind me, soft and uncertain, asking a question he shouldn’t have dared to ask.

Why me?

I don’t answer questions like that. Not from anyone. But something about the way he said it, not arrogant, not begging, just tired, stripped down to the bone. it stuck in my head longer than it should have.

I walk down the hall, my footsteps silent against the marble. The lights are dim, the house breathing slow. My men stand at their posts near the stairs, alert but calm. They straighten slightly when they see me.

“Everything clear?” I ask.

“Yes, boss,” one of them answers. “Perimeter’s quiet. No movement.”

I nod once, not slowing down. The house is safe tonight, at least from the outside. It’s the inside I’m not so sure about.

When I reach my office, I close the door behind me and sink into the chair. The smell of smoke still lingers from earlier, faint but familiar. The desk lamp casts a small circle of light across the papers I left scattered before dinner. Reports. Numbers. Territory updates. All things that should hold my attention. But they don’t. Not tonight.

Instead, my eyes wander toward the small black screen sitting on the corner of the desk.

Security feed.

Ten windows divided across the display, the main gate, the west hall, the courtyard, the kitchen, the living room, my son’s room… and the one at the far right corner, the new room.

Erin’s room.

I installed that one myself. Not because I don’t trust my staff. But because I don’t trust anyone. Especially not strangers who arrive at my gate covered in dirt and fear, holding a poster that shouldn’t exist.

I tap the screen once, enlarging the feed. The view sharpens, grainy in the low light, but clear enough.

He’s still awake.

He sits on the edge of the bed, his elbows resting on his knees, head hanging low. The lamplight paints shadows along his shoulders. His hands are tangled in his hair, and he looks like a man trying to remember how to breathe.

He doesn’t move for a long time.

I should look away. I should turn off the screen and focus on what matters, Rizzo, the Croatians, the whispers in the south docks. But I don’t.

Instead, I watch him.

He’s an odd man to read. Not polished like the ones who usually cross my path. There’s no arrogance in him, no greed in his posture. Just exhaustion. But exhaustion can be a weapon too, it makes men dangerous in ways they don’t even understand. When you’ve lost everything, you stop fearing what comes next. That’s what makes them unpredictable.

He’s dangerous because he has nothing left to lose.

Still, something about him doesn’t fit. I’ve seen desperate men before. They beg, they lie, they cling to survival like rats on a sinking ship. But he didn’t. Not fully. There was shame, yes. Fear too. But there was also something else, a kind of quiet stubbornness. Like he’s already decided he’d rather die on his feet than crawl anymore.

That intrigues me.

I glance toward the whiskey bottle on the corner of my desk. Half full. I pour a small glass, just enough to taste, and take a slow sip. The burn steadies my hands, but it doesn’t quiet my thoughts.

Why did someone put that poster up? Who had access to my staff list, my contact numbers, my private channels? That kind of leak doesn’t happen by accident. Someone wants me distracted. Someone wants a stranger in my home.

Maybe Erin’s not a coincidence. Maybe he’s a message.

If so, then he’s either the most clueless pawn I’ve ever seen or the smartest.

I watch him again. He’s lying down now, not asleep, just staring at the ceiling. His shirt is still on, wrinkled, sweat-stained. He hasn’t even taken off his shoes. The small window by his bed lets in a sliver of moonlight, cutting across his face. For a second, he looks peaceful. Almost fragile.

It doesn’t suit him.

Men like him aren’t fragile. They just forget how to fight until someone reminds them.

I lean back in the chair, swirling the glass in my hand. I remember the way he looked at my son, cautious but soft. That caught me off guard. Most men tense up around Luca. They see my boy as a reminder of who I am. A target. A vulnerability.

But Erin looked at him differently.

There was something in his eyes I couldn’t name. It wasn’t pity. It wasn’t fear. It was something gentler, quieter, the kind of look that doesn’t belong in this house.

My jaw tightens. I can’t afford softness. Not from him. Not for him.

I take another drink, the taste bitter now.

When I looked at him earlier, when I stood behind him, close enough to feel his breath catch, I expected him to fold. Most men do. They break under silence faster than under threats. But he didn’t. He shook, yes, but he didn’t lie.

And when I asked if he’d protect my son, he didn’t rush to say yes. He thought about it first. That tells me more than any quick promise ever could.

I don’t trust him. Not yet. But I can’t ignore him either.

The screen flickers slightly. Erin shifts on the bed, finally tugging off his shoes and letting them fall to the floor. He sits back, exhales hard, and drags a hand through his hair. The motion is small, tired, unguarded.

It’s strange, seeing someone like that in my house. So human. So unpolished. My world doesn’t allow for moments like that. Every face I see is controlled, trained, pretending. Even my own men sleep with one eye open.

He doesn’t. He’s too worn out to pretend.

Maybe that’s why I keep watching.

A knock breaks the quiet. I glance up. One of my men stands at the doorway.

“Boss,” he says. “Rizzo’s been sighted near the harbor. Want us to move?”

My mind snaps back to business. Rizzo. Always circling like a vulture.

“No,” I say after a pause. “Let him think I’m not watching. He’ll get careless.”

The man nods. “Understood.”

He turns to leave, but I stop him. “Double the guards outside the boy’s room. No one steps foot near him without my say. Not even staff.”

“Yes, sir.”

When the door closes again, I look back at the screen. Erin’s eyes are closed now. His breathing’s slow, steady. The lines in his face have softened.

I should turn it off.

Instead, I lower the volume on the other feeds and keep the one showing him open. The faint static hum fills the room like white noise.

I don’t know what I’m waiting for. Maybe a twitch. Maybe a whisper. Maybe proof that I made the wrong decision letting him stay.

But nothing happens.

He just sleeps.

For a long time, I watch the rise and fall of his chest, the way his hand rests near his throat. There’s a small scar there, a pale line just beneath his jaw. Old. Clean. Not from a knife. Maybe glass. Maybe a reminder of whatever broke him before he came here.

Something about it pulls at me in ways I don’t like.

I shake it off, leaning back again, eyes narrowing. This isn’t interest. This is surveillance. That’s all. Watching is what keeps people alive in this house.

Still, the image doesn’t leave me easily.

He looks… harmless. That’s the dangerous part. Harmless men are the easiest to underestimate.

I think about what he said, I need to breathe again.

People only say things like that when they’ve already drowned once.

My son’s voice echoes faintly in my head from earlier. Papa said people who stay here are safe.

I almost laugh. If only that were true.

Nobody’s safe here. Not me. Not him. Especially not Erin Cole.

He doesn’t know what kind of cage he’s walked into. He doesn’t know that in my world, safety always has a price, and the moment you think you’re safe, you’ve already lost.

The feed flickers again. Erin turns over, face half-buried in the pillow. A soft sound leaves his throat, something between a sigh and a word. I turn up the volume just enough to catch it, but it fades.

He’s dreaming.

About what, I wonder. About debt collectors? About freedom? About the woman he used to be with?

It shouldn’t matter. But the question stays anyway.

I take another slow sip of whiskey, my gaze locked on the screen. His fingers twitch once, then go still.

Something twists in my chest irritation, curiosity, maybe both. I tell myself I’m only studying him. Learning his habits. His tells. That’s what I do with everyone. That’s how I survive.

But the longer I watch, the harder it is to believe that.

I drag my hand across my mouth, setting the glass down too hard. The sound echoes in the quiet room.

“This is foolish,” I mutter to no one.

But I don’t turn off the feed.

Instead, I lower the brightness and sit there, watching the faint outline of his body on the screen, half-swallowed by shadows.

Minutes stretch. Then hours. The clock ticks past midnight. My office grows darker, the only light coming from that small square of movement.

Every time he shifts, my eyes follow. Every breath he takes seems louder than it should.

And somewhere between one breath and the next, I realize something unsettling, I’m no longer watching him for threats.

I’m watching because I can’t look away.

I lean back, eyes narrowing at the realization. I tell myself it’s control, nothing more. A reminder that this man’s life sits under my roof, under my rule. That every breath he takes depends on me.

That’s all it is.

Control.

I repeat the word like a prayer.

But the truth presses quietly at the edges of my mind. The truth that maybe, for the first time in a long while, I’ve let curiosity get ahead of discipline.

And curiosity is the beginning of danger.

The feed flickers again, and the image sharpens, Erin turns, facing the camera now. His face soft in sleep, lips parted slightly, lashes shadowing his skin. Innocent. Or pretending to be.

I exhale slowly, forcing myself to look away.

Enough.

I switch off the monitor. The room goes dark, the hum silenced.

But when I close my eyes, I still see him. the quiet man in the white room, asleep in my house like he belongs there.

And for reasons I can’t explain, I don’t like how that makes me feel.