Temporary Arrangement

Elias Soren had always been good at pretending he was ordinary.

He worked evenings at a small independent bookstore on the quieter side of the city, the kind of place that still smelled like paper, dust, and the cheap coffee the owner insisted on making every morning. He smiled at every customer, remembered the regulars’ preferred genres, and never talked about where he came from. To the people who knew him as Elias Soren, he was just a bright twenty-four-year-old who liked poetry, made terrible jokes when the shop was empty, and always offered to help carry heavy boxes even when no one asked.

No one needed to know that his real last name was Blackwell.

No one needed to know that the man who sat at the head of the most powerful crime family in the city was his father.

Elias had spent years keeping that truth buried. He used his mother’s maiden name, lived in a modest apartment far from the family’s estates, and stayed away from anything that smelled like blood or power. He wanted nothing to do with the world his father ruled. He had made that clear more than once, in conversations that never ended well.

Unfortunately, the world did not care what he wanted.

It started with a late closing.

The bookstore had been quiet that evening. Elias locked the front door, flipped the sign to closed, and began wiping down the counter when the first gunshot cracked through the street outside. He froze. The second shot followed almost immediately, closer this time. Then came the sound of tires screeching and men shouting.

Elias’s first instinct was to drop behind the counter. His second was to reach for his phone. Before he could unlock it, the glass of the front door exploded inward.

Two men in dark clothes stormed inside. One of them had blood already soaking through the sleeve of his jacket. The other was dragging a third man who looked barely conscious. They didn’t look like random thieves. They looked like they belonged to the kind of world Elias had spent his entire adult life avoiding.

“Wrong place,” one of them snarled when he spotted Elias. “Get rid of him.”

Elias raised both hands slowly, trying to keep his voice steady. “I didn’t see anything. You can just leave. I won’t call anyone. I swear. I was just about to close up and go home. You don’t have to—”

The injured man laughed, short and ugly. “Too late for that, pretty boy.”

Before either of them could move closer, the front of the store lit up with new headlights. A black car came to a hard stop outside. Doors opened. More men entered, but these ones moved with clean, practiced efficiency. Within seconds the two intruders were disarmed and forced to their knees.

Elias stayed on the floor behind the counter, breathing too fast, until a pair of polished shoes stopped in front of him.

He looked up.

The man standing there was tall, dressed in a dark coat that looked expensive even under the cheap bookstore lights. His expression was completely unreadable. Cold gray eyes swept over Elias once, assessing him the way someone might assess a piece of furniture that had ended up in the wrong room.

“Get up,” the man said.

His voice was low and even. There was no warmth in it.

Elias stood on unsteady legs. He could still smell gunpowder and blood in the air. The man in front of him carried a different kind of presence entirely—controlled, distant, and heavy in a way that made the back of Elias’s neck prickle.

“I really didn’t see much,” Elias said quickly, words tumbling out before he could stop them. “I mean, I heard the shots and then the door broke and then these two came in, but I didn’t get a good look at anyone’s faces or anything. You can just let me go. I work here. I was about to lock up. I won’t say a word to anyone. I’m very good at minding my own business. Ask anyone.”

One of the men who had arrived with the tall one stepped closer and spoke quietly near his shoulder. “He’s the Don’s son. Confirmed.”

The tall man’s gaze sharpened by a fraction.

Elias’s stomach dropped.

Of course. Of course someone had recognized him. He had been careful for years, but careful was never enough in his father’s world.

“You’re Raphael,” Elias said, the name leaving him in a rush. “Raphael Blackwell. My father’s underboss. I’ve heard about you. People say you’re the one who doesn’t make mistakes. They also say you don’t talk much. And that you don’t smile. Is that true? You don’t look like someone who smiles a lot. Not that I’m judging. Some people just have serious faces. Mine is the opposite. I smile even when I shouldn’t. It’s a problem sometimes.”

Raphael looked at him for a long moment. Then he turned his head slightly and gave a short order. “Clean this up. No witnesses outside. Take him.”

Elias stiffened. “Take me where? I don’t need to be taken anywhere. I can go home. I have an apartment. It’s small but it’s fine. I can stay there. Or I can go to a hotel. Or I can leave the city for a while if that helps. I’m very flexible. I don’t want trouble. I’ve spent a long time not being trouble.”

Raphael’s eyes returned to him. There was no anger in his face, only a flat kind of certainty that made Elias’s protests feel smaller than they already were.

“You don’t have a choice,” Raphael said. “Your father already made it.”

The car ride was silent for exactly forty three seconds before Elias started talking again.

He sat in the back seat with his hands clenched on his knees, watching the city lights blur past the tinted windows. Raphael sat across from him, posture perfect, attention seemingly elsewhere. He didn’t speak. He didn’t look at Elias unless necessary.

Elias lasted as long as he could.

“So,” he said, “this is weird, right? I mean, not for you, probably. You’re used to this kind of thing. Guns and broken glass and people being told what to do. I’m not. I work at a bookstore. The most dangerous thing I deal with is when someone returns a book with the pages folded. I hate that. Do you read? You look like someone who might read. Or maybe you don’t have time. Underboss stuff is probably busy. Meetings. Orders. People who don’t smile.”

Raphael’s gaze flicked toward him once.

Elias took that as permission to continue.

“I use my mother’s name,” he said. “Soren. I have for years. It makes things easier. People don’t look at me the same way when they don’t know who my father is. I like it better that way. I told him I didn’t want any part of this life. I still don’t. I don’t like blood. I don’t like guns. I don’t like the way everyone in that world looks at each other like they’re measuring how useful or how disposable someone is. I just want quiet things. Books. Coffee. Maybe a plant that doesn’t die when I forget to water it.”

Silence.

Elias shifted in his seat. “You’re not much of a talker, huh? That’s okay. I can talk enough for both of us. Some people find it annoying. I’ve been told. But silence makes me nervous, especially after someone points a gun near my face. Which, by the way, is not something I want to make a habit of. Do you think my father is angry? He must be. He always gets quiet when he’s angry. Not that you would tell me even if you knew. You seem like the type who keeps things to yourself.”

Raphael finally spoke.

“Your father gave an order,” he said. His voice remained level. “You stay under my protection until he says otherwise. That is not a discussion.”

Elias blinked. “Protection. Right. That sounds serious. Is it going to be for a long time? Because I have shifts at the bookstore. My boss is going to wonder where I am. I should probably call her. Or text. Or something. Do I get to keep my phone? Wait, do I even get to ask questions, or is this more of a ‘sit quietly and don’t make problems’ situation?”

Raphael looked at him again, longer this time.

“You will not contact anyone without clearance,” he said. “You will not leave the property without clearance. If you attempt to run, you will be brought back.”

Elias let out a short breath that was almost a laugh. “Brought back. Like a runaway dog. That’s comforting. You know, for a man who’s supposed to be protecting me, you have a really good way of making a person feel like a burden.”

Raphael said nothing.

Elias leaned back against the seat and stared out the window, fingers tapping restlessly against his knee. The adrenaline was starting to fade, leaving behind a restless energy that needed somewhere to go. Talking had always been the easiest place.

“I’m not trying to make this harder,” he said after a moment, quieter now. “I just didn’t ask for any of this. I was having a normal night. I was going to go home, heat up leftover pasta, and fall asleep reading. Instead I got guns and broken glass and a car ride with my father’s underboss. Forgive me if I’m not adjusting at the perfect speed.”

Raphael’s eyes rested on him for another few seconds. Then he looked away again, as if the conversation had reached the end of its usefulness.

The residence Raphael brought him to was nothing like the flashy estates Elias associated with his father’s side of the family. It was a fortified townhouse in a quiet, expensive district, the kind of place that looked elegant from the outside and probably contained enough security to survive a small war.

Inside, the air was cool and sparsely furnished. Everything was dark wood, clean lines, and careful order. There were no photographs. No unnecessary decorations. It felt less like a home and more like a place someone used because they required shelter.

Raphael removed his coat and handed it off to a waiting staff member without looking at them. Then he turned to Elias.

“You will stay on the second floor. The room at the end of the hall is prepared. You do not leave the property without my clearance. You do not contact anyone without my clearance. Meals will be provided. If you need something, you ask the staff. You do not wander.”

Elias looked around the entrance hall, then back at Raphael. “It’s very… clean. Minimal. Kind of like a hotel that doesn’t want guests to get comfortable. Do you actually live here, or is this just one of those places you keep for work? Because it doesn’t feel like anyone lives here. There’s no clutter. No shoes by the door. No half-read books. Nothing.”

Raphael’s expression did not change. “This is not hospitality. This is containment.”

Elias almost smiled. “Containment. That’s a really warm way to describe it. You should put that on a welcome mat. ‘Welcome. You are being contained.’”

He took a few steps further inside, still talking.

“I’m going to need clothes, by the way. I came straight from work. I have nothing with me. And a charger. My phone is at like twelve percent. And maybe a toothbrush if there isn’t already one in the room. I’m not trying to be difficult. I just didn’t pack for an unexpected kidnapping by my father’s most trusted man.”

“It is not a kidnapping.”

“It feels a little like one.”

Raphael’s gaze remained steady. “Your father ordered your protection. I am carrying out that order. That is all this is.”

Elias studied him for a moment. The man was difficult to read. Everything about him was controlled,his posture, his voice, the way he stood as if he had already decided how the next several hours would go. There was something tightly held about his presence, something that made Elias’s instincts sit up and pay attention without understanding why.

“You’re not what I expected,” Elias said honestly. “I thought you’d be louder. Or crueler. Or at least more annoyed by me by now. Most people get annoyed by me faster than this.”

Raphael looked at him as if he were still deciding what category to place him in.

“Dinner will be sent to your room,” he said at last. “Do not come downstairs unless you are called.”

He turned toward the staircase without waiting for a reply.

Elias remained in the entrance hall after the sound of footsteps faded. The house felt too large and too quiet around him. Somewhere deeper inside, security systems hummed softly. Outside, the city continued as if nothing had happened.

He lifted a hand and rubbed the back of his neck, exhaling slowly.

He had spent years running from the Blackwell name.

Tonight the name had come to collect him anyway.

And the man assigned to keep him alive looked at him like he was both a duty and an inconvenience and somehow that only made Elias want to keep talking until something in that cold expression finally shifted.

He started up the stairs, already wondering how long “temporary” was supposed to last.