Loyalties will be tested. Hearts will be broken. Desire will be their downfall. Middlesbrough's underworld is a dangerous game, and Matthew Smith finds himself right in the middle of it. A once-feared gang leader, he is now forced to be a pawn in a deadly cat-and-mouse game. Matthew's only shot at freedom is helping the police bring down Mr. K, the elusive mafia boss of the city. The only problem is that the detective he is forced to work with is the same man who arrested him years ago. Masahiro Payne is everything Matthew hates: cold, calculating, and relentless. But their only hope for survival is by pretending to be a happy couple, blending in amidst dangerous crime, deceit, and power struggles. The closer they find themselves to taking down Mr. K's empire, the more they are attracted to one another, an affair too potent to turn from. As their undercover mission spirals into a web of lies and hidden desires, they face a growing threat from all sides. But the greatest risk is the one they can't control-their own feelings. With every touch, every stolen kiss, the line between their fake relationship and real emotions blurs. In a world of betrayal, trust is a luxury, and falling for each other may be the deadliest mistake of all. Can they survive the deadly mafia games or will their passion be their demise?
View MoreMatthew didn’t wait for an invitation—just dropped into the chair across from Clark like he owned it.Masahiro sat beside him with all the enthusiasm of a man attending a funeral, pulling out his phone before the chair even touched the floor.Matthew grinned, eyes on Clark. “You two are cute. The bodyguard act? Adorable. But let’s not pretend you’re not fucking like a side plot to a very illegal soap opera.”Clark, unbothered, lifted his wineglass with practiced elegance. “And you’re talking like a man who’s only slept with criminals and delusions.”Matthew’s grin widened. “Facts.”Adam didn’t look up. Just kept eating his burger like nothing in the room concerned him.“Adam’s real quiet today,” Matthew added, leaning his chin on his palm. “All those hickeys drain your vocabulary?”Clark sliced a piece of venison with clean, silent precision. “Some of us have class. Others… wear too much cologne and overshare.”Masahiro didn’t even glance up. “Don’t e
The trial day had ended with the defense soaring and the prosecution bleeding.Masahiro, Arthur, and Matthew stood in the hallway, a loose cluster of tension and exhaustion. Arthur clutched a half-empty water bottle, his fingers still shaking from the witness stand. Masahiro stood tall and unreadable, as always.Matthew looked like he’d just come out of a concert—buzzing, amused, and entirely too observant.Clark approached with that predator-still-in-courtroom calm, suit untouched, expression cool. Adam was behind him, one step back, hands in his pockets, saying nothing—like always.“Hell of a show,” Matthew said as Clark joined them. “You made that prosecutor look like she was reciting a grocery list under threat.”Clark only lifted a brow. “She wasn’t worth more than that.”Masahiro gave a nod. “Strong performance.”Arthur murmured, “Nathaniel might actually walk…”Clark nodded slightly. “Let’s not jinx it.”They stood there for a beat.The
The door shut behind them with a soft, echoing click.Clark didn’t speak. Neither did Nathaniel.For a long moment, they just stood there in the defense room—alone, away from the murmuring gallery and the jury’s blank stares.Clark finally moved.He set his notes down on the table, reached up, and took off his glasses. Not dramatically. Just… tired.His fingers pressed to the bridge of his nose like he could squeeze the tension out through his skull.Nathaniel watched him.Still in his seat. Back straight. Calm in the way someone learns from spending time around chaos.“You didn’t have to say all that,” Nathaniel said quietly.Clark dropped his hand. Didn’t look at him yet. “Yeah, well. I did.”“You made me sound like a hero.”Clark finally glanced up. The fatigue didn’t soften his tone. “No. I made you sound like a man who didn’t fire a gun.”Nathaniel gave a small, humorless laugh. “Still a lie.”Clark sat down slowly across from
The courtroom felt colder.Not physically—just… off.Like every breath Clark took was being measured in decibels.Like the walls were closer.The gallery buzzed with quiet anticipation—reporters in tailored neutral, pens ready to cut. Matthew sat on the far end, half-scowling. Arthur hovered near Masahiro, face unreadable.Nathaniel sat beside Clark—still, calm, like he didn’t feel the pressure digging into the back of his spine.And Clark?Perfect.Tie sharp. Glasses gleaming. Posture textbook.Only Adam saw the truth.His tie was straight, but his breath was shallow. That wasn’t confidence. That was survival.Adam watched from the last bench, arms folded.Motionless. But primed.At the front of the courtroom, Diana Halvorsen stood like she’d built the place.Flawless blonde hair, heels like blades, voice clear as verdicts.She turned to the jury with clinical poise.“Let’s talk about narrative.”“You want to paint Bishop as a savior’s assistant?” she asked, voice smooth. “Then tell
Arthur sat at his desk, staring at the clock.3:59 PM.He shifted in his chair. Cleared his throat. Glanced at the file in front of him, then at Masahiro—just across the room, seated, silent, flipping through a thick report with surgical focus.Arthur hesitated.Then looked again.Masahiro didn’t look up. Not immediately. Just turned another page with that same eerie calm.Then, without raising his voice or his head, he said, “I know exactly what you want.”Arthur straightened. “I—uh—what?”Masahiro looked at him now. Direct. Sharp. “You want to visit Cassidy.”Arthur’s ears burned. “Sir, I was going to—”“You’re allowed,” Masahiro interrupted. “Go.”Arthur blinked. “Really?”Masahiro returned to his file. “You’ll be back before shift ends.”Arthur nodded quickly, standing. “Yes. Thank you, sir.”Masahiro said nothing more.Arthur cleaned his desk—neatly, as always—then grabbed his coat and bag. He moved quickly but tried n
Adam got up from the couch and tugged the curtain back.Clark was outside on the balcony, sitting on the tile floor like it wasn’t cold, wearing nothing but Adam’s hoodie. Legs bare. Hair a mess. Staring at the skyline like it had wronged him.Adam slid the glass door open. Leaned against the frame.“You really gonna sit out there half-naked like a damn raccoon in a hoodie?”Clark didn’t look over. “What do you care?”“I don’t.” Adam stepped out. “Just don’t want to explain to Masahiro why you froze your ass off in my perimeter.”Clark exhaled through his nose. “I’m not cold.”“You’re barefoot on stone, dumbass.”Clark muttered, “I’m not here for a fashion lecture.”Adam didn’t rise to it. Just crouched beside him, arms on his knees, voice low. Calm. But with that steel under it.“You need a signal.”Clark blinked. “What?”“In public. Court. Crowd. Whatever. You’re too proud to say ‘help.’ So don’t. Just tap.”Clark stared at him.
The trial had ended.Not in fire, not in blood. The gallery emptied quickly—reporters scuttling off to feed headlines, spectators trickling out in whispers. The clack of heels and shoes echoed until the room was hollow.Clark didn’t move.He stood beside the defense table, hands flat, jaw tight, staring down at the stack of notes like they might rearrange themselves into something useful.Masahiro was the first to step closer. Matthew followed, quiet for once. Arthur hung back, uncertain."Clark," Masahiro said low. "It was a tough session, but—""You did everything you could," Matthew offered, unusually serious.Clark said nothing.Didn’t blink.Didn’t breathe.Then Adam moved.He stepped in without a word, placed a firm hand on Clark's shoulder. "We should go."Clark exhaled, just a fraction, and stepped away from the table.Adam glanced at the trio like he didn’t need to explain. Like this wasn’t the time.Masahiro unde
Two weeks later The courtroom was cold. Sterile. More like a morgue than a chamber of justice.Clark was sitting at the defense table. Navy suit pressed. Tie straight. Glasses low on his nose. The picture of control—except for the death grip on his notes.The courtroom was packed. Press, gallery, sketch artists. Arthur sat in the back, unreadable. Masahiro beside him, arms folded. Matthew leaned in the corner, watching Clark like he was the only thing holding the walls up.And Adam—silent, broad, near the exit—eyes locked on Clark."Court is now in session. The People versus Nathaniel Bishop."The judge’s voice echoed through the chamber, sharp as the crack of a gavel. The courtroom stilled.Across from him, the prosecutor, Diana Halvorsen, stood with calm, dangerous precision. Her heels clicked once on the hardwood as she stepped forward."Your Honor," she began, "the prosecution will revisit the timeline of the incident at the Crayfo
The front door clicked shut behind them.Clark walked in first, tossing his blazer over the back of the nearest chair and muttering something about how courtrooms smelled like wood polish and moral decay.Then the light blinked on.He slowed.Not completely—just enough to glance up at the hallway, blinking once. Frowned faintly.Another step.A second light flicked on—this one lower, softer, tracing the path toward the kitchen with a warm, almost deliberate glow.Clark stopped completely. “Okay.”Adam followed behind, setting his keys down. “What.”Clark turned. “That wasn’t there before.”Adam barely looked up. “Good eye.”Clark squinted. “When did this happen?”“While we were out.”Clark took another step. The light above the pantry glowed to life.He turned slowly, then looked at Adam with suspicious narrowing eyes. “You put motion lights in the condo.”Adam shrugged. “Problem?”Clark blinked. “Why?”“You trip in
"Thirty-seven, thirty-eight, thirty-nine..."Knock! Knock!The sharp sound of a truncheon rapping against the cell bars broke Matthew's focus mid-push-up."Matthew Smith!" the prison guard barked.Matthew paused, caught his breath, and stood up. "Yeah," he replied, wiping the sweat off his forehead as he straightened his posture."Let’s go," the guard ordered, unlocking the cell door.Without a word, Matthew walked toward the open door. As he stepped out, a chorus of whistles and crude remarks erupted from his cellmates. He ignored them. He had learned long ago that responding wasn’t worth the effort. Today, more than ever, it didn’t matter—because today was different. Today was his last day in this hellhole.The guard locked the cell behind him. "Follow me," he instructed.Matthew fell in line behind the guard, walking down the dimly lit corridor lined with barred cells. Jeers followed him with every step, but he kept his eyes forward, focused. He’d never cared much for their taunts, ...
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