The Mafia Professor's Deadly Lesson

Imogen's Pov.

“I've missed you,” he says, grabbing me by my waist and pulling me to his lap just as I drop my bag onto the nearest table. The soft thud of the bag is a stark contrast to the rapid beat of my heart.

I straddle him with a smile and wrap my hands around his neck. “I’ve missed you even more,” I admit. It's the absolute truth. I’ve missed him far more than I could’ve imagined. He's been so busy lately, traveling out of the country randomly, sometimes for just a few days, other times for weeks, and taking more leaves than usual from the university. I notice the belongings in his studio apartment are getting smaller, fewer. It's a detail I cling to, a sign that maybe he's finally starting on our plans to move in together once I graduate.

Dating my professor is a bittersweet experience, one I'm not sure I'd recommend to anyone, especially when he's the youngest and most sought-after on campus. It's a constant battle.

I have to endure girls openly expressing their sexual fantasies about him on cafeteria tables while I sit just a few feet away. I have to deal with boys flirting with me, and I have to lie about a non-existent boyfriend—all while my actual boyfriend is exceedingly possessive and wants me around him always.

Not to mention the stolen moments, the random kisses behind locker rooms, the hurried embraces in empty classrooms, and the simple but meaningful moments when he taps my head while walking past in the hallways.

It has been two years of living this double life with Dante Salvatore, and I wouldn’t trade it for the world. Just two more years until I graduate, and we'll finally be free to make this officially known, to live a life without secrets.

He flips me over so he's on top of me. I can’t help but stare at how devastatingly handsome he looks, the soft overhead lighting catching the sharp angles of his face. His green eyes, the color of a lush forest that I’ve always admired, stare at me with the raw desire that I recognize all too well.

He leans closer and starts kissing me, a short, gentle moment that quickly grows into something more, a frantic undressing of each other until we're writhing together.

The familiar rhythm begins as he eases himself inside me. Afterward, he lies next to me, his heavy breathing syncing with mine as I scoot closer and rest my head on his shoulder.

I love this. How he touches me, feels me, and syncs with me as if we're two parts of a whole. It’s been three weeks since he’d left, three weeks of me trying to focus on my exams, but it's hard when my mind is always on him. He only sends a couple of texts in the morning and at night, his phone switched off for the rest of the day.

“I got you something for your birthday,” I start, my fingers tracing lazy circles on his chest.

His body stiffens. “You shouldn't have.”

“You know I will.” I've gifted him a lot of things in the previous years, but in three days he turns thirty, and that’s a significant milestone that needs more attention.

My gifts are usually crappy stuff: shirts, a vase he has on his desk, and a sweater vest that he wears too. Nothing compared to the luxury items he buys for me. This year, I wanted to do something larger. With the allowance he gives me, I was able to secure a Dior watch and a birthday trip to Italy, to his hometown.

“Well, you shouldn't have, you don't have to be so stubborn, Imogen.” His voice is deeper now, the playful tone gone.

I raise my head, searching his face. “Why are you angry?”

“I'm not angry. I just don't want you to fuss over me. Just focus on yourself. I saw the debit on one of the cards; you paid for a trip to Italy?”

“Yes,” I answer, a genuine smile creeping onto my lips.

“Cancel it.”

“What?”

“You heard me. Cancel it. I'm not going to Italy, not even with you.”

“If Italy is the problem, then I'll—”

“Just cancel the f*cking trip!” he yells, his voice raw with frustration. He curses under his breath and runs his hands through his hair, a gesture I’ve seen him do only when he’s under extreme pressure.

Tears roll down my cheeks. He's never yelled at me before. I wipe my tears angrily and get off the bed before picking up my clothes. I pull on my cardigan, which covers my upper body but leaves my bottom partly on display, the fabric clinging to my skin.

I want to storm out of the apartment, to just leave and not look back, but I can't with his release sliding down my legs. I decide to lock myself in the bathroom, to just breathe for a moment, but he holds me quickly.

“I'm sorry. I shouldn't have—”

“You shouldn't have done what exactly?” I don’t realize I'm yelling until the words are out, but I don't care. “You've been leaving without notice. All you do is leave a text, and that's it. You don't understand how lonely I've been, and I've been trying to fix it because I thought you were pulling away because of me.” My voice breaks, and the tears fall faster.

He pulls me closer slowly, and I let him, probably because I'm a crying mess and need the comfort. He sits on the edge of the bed, and I'm on his lap again, my body shaking with silent sobs.

“Look, I'm sorry, but a lot of things have been happening lately. Things that I would kill to tell you, princesspa, but I can't... not now.” His eyes are red, like he's fighting back tears of his own. I don't want him to cry. I don't want him to get hurt. I don't know why, but I love this man so much that his happiness is my priority.

“It's okay. I won't force it,” I say in a mere whisper.

“I feel like junk. I shouldn't have yelled at you. I don't want to hurt you, Imogen. I really don't, and each time I do, I hate myself. I love you so much, far more than I ever expected. You deserve so much better than me... you deserve to be happy.”

“I am happy with you, Dante. I really am.” Maybe we are messy, a cliché student-professor with a ten-year age gap, but I know we're different, and we'll work it out. I have to.

“I love you. I love you so much.” His voice breaks as I kiss him again, a soft, reassuring kiss. Slowly, he lays me on the bed, and he makes love to me, slowly and tenderly, his whispers of "I love you" accompanying every touch, every kiss, every shiver, and every thrust, like a promise he wants imprinted in my memory forever.

I wake up the next morning with a yawn, expecting his hands to be around my waist as usual, or to watch him get dressed for work after helping me set down my morning coffee, a cup of water, and contraceptives. But the apartment is silent, empty. Maybe he's in the bathroom, I think, turning to the side of the bed with a groan, just as my eye catches a post-it note on the bedside lamp.

My heart drops to my stomach. I sit up quickly and snatch it from the lamp, skimming through it with shaky hands. The words are simple, but they cut deeper than any blade.

“I'm sorry. I can't be the man you want me to be. Don't look for me.”

No. Goodness no. This can't be happening. My world is collapsing, and I have no idea why.