Dangerously Yours

Rules

Morning filters through the courtyard windows, slicing gold across the marble. The house hums softly: phones ringing in distant rooms, doors shutting, low male voices murmuring about timetables and routes. Everything feels coordinated, like an orchestra that never sleeps.

A knock comes once, brisk. Isla steps in without waiting for permission, a mug of coffee in each hand. The faint scent of gun oil trails behind her.

''Morning, Rookie.''

I blink. ''You're very awake.''

''Permanent condition.'' She passes me the mug. ''Drink. You'll need focus.''

I follow her down the hall into a room what looks like an old music room converted into a workspace. Maps cover the walls, strings connecting photographs, ports circled in red marker. Desks hum with half-lit laptops. Luca lances up from one of them; Aiden's pale eyes skim data feeds; Rafa is cleaning the mechanism of a rifle at the open window.

No one greets me exactly—just a flick of acknowledgment before they keep working.

Isla tosses me a folder. ''This is how we keep places running without drawing attention. You don't have full access, but you need to know enough not to blow cover if anyone ever corners you.''

I frown at the stack of coded ledgers and route maps. ''You expect me to understand this?''

''I expect you to learn.'' She shrugs. ''You were working in a club before this, right? Reading a room, memorizing faces, reading tells? Same thing. Different stakes.''

Across the room, Marco looked up from a cleaning cloth. ''Careful, Isla. You'll make her part of the team.''

Isla shoots him a glance sharp enough to shave metal. ''She's safer knowing the basics. Ignorance isn't protection.''

Luca's tone is quiet. ''The boss agrees.''

That makes me glance towards the corridor automatically, though Elijah isn't there. The knowledge that he approved this lesson sits uneasily in my chest—equal parts threat and trust.

Isla leads me through the house, pointing out details I'd missed: security cameras disguised as antique sconces, coded alarms inside picture frames. ''Mira manages the domestic stuff. We handle everything that draws heat. The workers rotate on jobs—payments, extractions, keeping the balance, so other families don't push too close.''

''Jobs,'' I say slowly. ''You mean killing people.''

She studies me for a beat. ''Sometimes. Usually it's making sure someone remembers whose city this is. There's a distance.''

A distant gunshot echoes from somewhere outside. I flinch; no one else does.

''Training range,'' Isla says, reading my face. ''You'll never know when you'll need to hold your own.''

We climb a stairwell to a training room lined with mats and weapons. Aiden stands at a screen on the wall, quietly dispatching information to whoever's listening on the other end. When he notices me, he nods slightly. ''Welcome to the shark tank.''

Isla smirks. ''He's always cheerful before noon.''

Hours slide by. She drills me on house geography, the emergency passages behind the library, names of trusted suppliers. I absorb what I can. By the time we break, my head feels stuffed with secrets I didn't ask to know.

Back downstairs, the others are gathering near the front. Marcos' voice carries easily. ''Pier job tonight. Short run. We're out before dawn.''

Elijah appears then, dressed in dark clothes that look more at home in shadow than in light. The entire rooms adjust around him—the volume drops, movements sharpen.

He gives a nod toward Luca. ''Loadout in twenty. No mistakes.''

''Yes, boss.''

Then his gaze finds me. ''How was your lesson?''

''Educational,'' I say carefully.

Isla adds, 'She's quick.''

''Good,'' Elijah replies. ''She'll need to be.''

He passes, the faint scent of his cologne brushing my skin. When the door closes behind the crew, the house exhales.

Isla leans against the wall, watching me. ''You see how they all move around him? That's not fear. It's rhythm. He's metronome, and if he stops, everything falls apart.''

Outside, engines flare to life. Through the wide windows, I glimpse the cars pulling away—Elijah at the front, Luca beside him, Marco tossing a careless salute as they disappear into the city night.

The silence follows hums with threat and absence.

I realize I'm holding my breath again. Then Mira's voice carries from somewhere down the hall. ''Dinner in two hours. You should eat.''

For once, I'm hungry—not for food, but for understanding.

Because every rule Isla just gave me proves the same thing: no one leaves this house unchanged.

And somehow, I'm already starting down that road.