WHEN THE CITY SOFTENS

Chapter 4: The Walls We Build

Adewunmi

The next three days passed in a blur of surgeries, rounds, and deliberate avoidance of Sacred Grounds.

Adewunmi threw herself into work with an intensity that made even her co-residents raise eyebrows. She volunteered for extra cases, stayed late to observe procedures, studied until her eyes burned. Anything to avoid thinking about Nicholas Savey and the inexplicable pull she felt toward a man she had no business wanting.

You already know who he is, Folake had warned. Mafia family, FBI investigations, broken engagement. These are not small red flags, Wunmi. These are billboards saying 'run.'

And she was running. Just in the opposite direction of what made sense.

It was Thursday evening—exactly one week since their coffee shop collision—when her phone buzzed during a rare quiet moment in the resident lounge.

Unknown number: You're avoiding me.

Her heart stuttered. She stared at the message, fingers hovering over the keyboard. She should delete it. Block the number. Pretend she never saw it.

Instead: I don't have your number. How would I know to avoid you?

The response came immediately: You haven't been back to Sacred Grounds. Marcus misses you. Says the morning shift isn't the same.

Marcus needs to mind his business.

So you ARE avoiding me.

She bit her lip, torn between irritation and something that felt dangerously like pleasure. The man was persistent; she'd give him that.

I'm busy. Residency doesn't leave much time for coffee shop small talk.

Then have dinner with me.

Her breath caught. There it was—direct, simple, terrifying.

I don't think that's a good idea.

Why not?

Because you're dangerous. Because I've researched you and know exactly what your family does. Because when I close my eyes, I still feel your hands steadying me, and it makes me want things I have no business wanting.

Because we don't know each other.

That's literally what dinner is for. Getting to know someone.

Nicholas—

One dinner, Adewunmi. Somewhere public, completely safe. If you hate it, if I'm not who you hope I am, you never have to see me again.

And if I say no?

Then I'll respect that and stop bothering you. But I'm hoping you'll say yes.

She should say no. Every rational part of her brain was screaming at her to say no.

Her fingers typed: One dinner. Somewhere quiet. And if you're even five minutes late, I'm leaving.

I'll be ten minutes early. Saturday night? 7 PM?

Fine.

Can I have your address? To pick you up?

I'll meet you there. Just send me the location.

A pause, longer this time. She could almost see him debating whether to push.

Okay. I'll text you the address Friday. And Adewunmi?

Yes?

Thank you for saying yes.

She stared at her phone long after the conversation ended, her stomach doing complicated acrobatics. What was she doing? This wasn't her—agreeing to dinner with a man connected to organized crime, a man who made her forget every rule she'd built her life around.

"You look either very happy or very terrified," a voice said from the doorway.

Adewunmi looked up to find Dr. Sarah Chen, one of the other surgical residents, watching her with amusement. Sarah was one of the few people in the program who'd been consistently kind—sharing notes, covering shifts, treating Adewunmi like a colleague rather than competition.

"Terrified," Adewunmi admitted. "Definitely terrified."

Sarah came in, dropping into the chair beside her. "Want to talk about it?"

"I just agreed to have dinner with a man I barely know."

"That's called dating. Pretty normal human behavior."

"Not for me." Adewunmi locked her phone, as if that could erase the conversation. "I don't date. I don't have time to date. I definitely don't date complicated men who come with warning labels."

"Warning labels?" Sarah's eyebrows rose. "This sounds interesting."

"It's not. It's stupid and reckless and I should cancel right now."

"But you're not going to." It wasn't a question.

"No," Adewunmi said quietly. "I'm not."

Sarah studied her for a moment, then smiled. "Good. You know what your problem is, Adewunmi? You're so busy being perfect that you've forgotten how to be human. Sometimes you need to do something stupid and reckless. It's good for the soul."

"You sound like my best friend."

"Your best friend sounds wise." Sarah stood, stretching. "Just be careful, okay? And maybe text someone his name and address. You know, standard serial killer precautions."

After Sarah left, Adewunmi sat in the quiet lounge, surrounded by medical textbooks and the distant beeping of monitors. She thought about her mother, who'd call this reckless. About Folake, who'd call this dangerous. About every rule she'd set for herself about focus and discipline and not getting distracted.

Then she thought about Nicholas's eyes, the way he'd said her name like it mattered, the feeling of his hands steadying her when she'd stumbled.

One dinner, she told herself. What's the worst that could happen?

Nicholas

"You look happy," his mother observed over Thursday dinner at her Gold Coast townhouse. "Should I be worried?"

Nicholas looked up from his osso buco—his mother's housekeeper made it the way his grandmother used to, falling off the bone and rich with wine. "Can't a man just enjoy a good meal?"

"Not when that man is my son and hasn't looked this relaxed in two years." Diane Savey set down her wine glass, her blue eyes—the same shade as his—assessing. "So who is she?"

"What makes you think there's a she?"

"Because you're twisting your father's ring. You only do that when you're nervous or thinking about something important. And you're smiling while you do it, which means it's not business." She leaned back, elegant even in casual dinner attire. "So. Who is she?"

Nicholas stopped twisting the ring. "Her name is Adewunmi. She's a surgical resident. And before you ask, no, she doesn't know who I am. Not really."

"But she will."

"I told her some of it. That my family business is complicated, that there are things in my past I'm not proud of." He met his mother's gaze. "She agreed to have dinner with me anyway."

Something flickered across Diane's face—concern, maybe, or old pain. She'd spent thirty years as Thomas Savey's wife, had raised two sons in the shadow of organized crime, had buried a husband whose stress and secrets had killed him as surely as any bullet.

"Be careful, Nicky." Her voice was soft, using his childhood nickname. "Not just with her heart. With yours too."

"I am being careful."

"Are you?" She reached across the table, covering his hand. "Because I've watched you these past two years, trying to dismantle everything your father built, trying to go straight. And I'm proud of you for it, truly. But I also know what it costs—the enemies you're making, the pressure you're under. Is it fair to bring someone into that?"

"Probably not." He turned his hand over, squeezing hers. "But Ma, when I'm with her, I feel like the person I want to be instead of the person I have to be. Is that so wrong?"

"No, baby. That's not wrong at all." But her eyes were sad. "Just... protect her. However you can. Women who love Savey men—we pay prices we never agreed to."

The weight of her words settled over the table. Nicholas thought about his father—brilliant and brutal, capable of tenderness with his family and ruthlessness with everyone else. Thought about the toll it had taken on his mother, the fear she'd hidden, the compromises she'd made.

"I'm not Dad," he said quietly.

"I know. But the world you're trying to leave doesn't let go easily." She withdrew her hand, picking up her fork. "Now. Tell me about this Adewunmi. Where is she from?"

They spent the rest of dinner talking about safer things—Adewunmi's background, her medical career, the way she'd yelled at him in pidgin. His mother laughed at that, and Nicholas felt some of the tension ease.

But driving home later, her warning echoed in his head. Women who love Savey men pay prices they never agreed to.

He wouldn't let that happen to Adewunmi. He'd protect her, keep her separate from the worst parts of his world. The FBI investigation, the Volkovs, Marco's growing resentment—none of it would touch her.

He'd make sure of it.

Even if it meant lying to her about just how dangerous things were becoming.

Even if it meant pushing her away before she got too close to the fire.

His phone buzzed with a text from Marco: Meeting tomorrow. The Castellanos are pushing boundaries again. We need to respond.

Nicholas typed back: Handle it diplomatically. No violence.

That's not how this works.

That's how it works now. We talked about this.

You talked. I didn't agree.

Nicholas squeezed the steering wheel, frustration building. Every day it was something—another challenge to his authority, another test of his commitment to going legitimate. Marco wasn't making it easier.

Another text, this time from a number he didn't recognize: Mr. Savey, this is Special Agent Chen. We really do need to talk. The longer you wait, the fewer options you'll have.

He deleted it without responding. The FBI could wait. Right now, all he wanted to think about was Saturday night, and the woman who'd agreed to have dinner with him despite every reason not to.

One dinner, she'd said.

He'd make it count. Would show her that he wasn't just the man in the articles, the heir to a criminal empire. He was someone trying to be better, trying to build something clean from the ashes of his father's legacy.

And maybe, if he was lucky, she'd give him a chance to prove it.

Adewunmi

Friday night found Adewunmi staring at her closet like it held the secrets of the universe instead of just scrubs, jeans, and the handful of dresses she'd brought from Lagos.

"What do you wear to dinner with a reformed criminal?" she muttered to herself.

Her phone rang—Folake, right on schedule.

"You're still going?" Folake asked without preamble.

"Hello to you too."

"Wunmi, seriously. Have you thought this through?"

"I've thought about nothing else for three days." Adewunmi pulled out a dress—too formal—and put it back. "And yes, I'm still going."

"Then at least be smart about it. Meet him somewhere public. Tell someone where you'll be. Keep your phone charged. And for God's sake, don't go anywhere alone with him."

"You sound like my mother."

"Your mother would lock you in your room if she knew." Folake's voice softened. "I'm just worried, babe. This man—his world is dangerous."

"I know." Adewunmi sat on her bed, a green dress in her lap. "But Folake, when I talked to him, even just through text, I felt... alive. Like I wasn't just Dr. Adeleke, the surgical resident who has to be perfect. I was just me. And he wanted to know more."

"That's called good manipulation."

"Or it's called genuine interest." She stood, holding the dress up to the mirror. "I'm not naive. I know what his family does. But he's trying to change that. Shouldn't that count for something?"

Silence on the other end, then a sigh. "Okay. Okay, fine. But I'm tracking your location, and you're texting me every hour. And Wunmi?"

"Yes?"

"Don't fall for him. Not yet. Not until you really know who he is."

After they hung up, Adewunmi stared at her reflection. The green dress was perfect—elegant but not too formal, fitted but not too tight. It made her skin glow and brought out the warmth in her brown eyes.

Don't fall for him, Folake had said.

But standing there, imagining Nicholas's reaction when he saw her, Adewunmi wondered if it was already too late.