The Mob Queen Wants to Claim Me for Herself (In a Reverse World)

My heart pounds like a jackhammer against my ribs as I race across the bedroom, socked feet sliding on the polished hardwood. The moment the elevator doors closed behind Caterina, I was in motion, counting down the seconds in my head.

Sixty seconds to make sure she’s really gone.

Another thirty to gather my courage.

Now it’s time to act.

I reach the painting, and my fingers tremble as I grab the ornate frame. The hinges move silently as I swing it outward, revealing the sleek electronic keypad embedded in the wall. The small screen glows with a soft blue light, waiting for input.

“2 3 2 6,” I mutter under my breath as I punch in each number, my index finger hovering momentarily before committing to each press. The pad beeps softly with each digit.

I hold my breath as I enter the final number, half-expecting alarms to blare or for Caterina to somehow materialize behind me, those crimson eyes narrowed in betrayal. But there’s only a soft electronic chime, followed by the heavy sound of locks disengaging.

The hidden door slides open with a pneumatic hiss, revealing the secret room beyond. I step inside, my sock-clad feet silent on the concrete floor.

“Today’s the day,” I whisper to myself, the words hanging in the climate-controlled air of the safe room. “The first day of the rest of my life.”

The arsenal of weapons gleams under the recessed lighting, sleek and deadly. Handguns and rifles. I ignore them all for now, moving instead toward the safe where the cash is stored.

The safe door stands partially open, just as Caterina left it during her demonstration. Inside, neat stacks of hundred-dollar bills fill the shelves, more money than I’ve ever seen in my life. Five hundred thousand dollars, she’d said. Enough to disappear.

I reach for the duffel bag sitting on a nearby shelf, unzipping it with shaking hands. The sound seems impossibly loud in the quiet room. I start grabbing bundles of cash, stuffing them into the bag without counting. Twenty bundles, thirty, forty….

‘I’m just gonna take half. I think putting up her with her this long is worth that. Plus, she can keep the Birkin. She probably has a tracker in it anyway.’

My eyes drift to the cabinet of passports, glass gleaming under the lights. I set the money bag down and move to the cabinet, pulling it open with careful movements. Inside, just as Caterina described, are a handful of passports, German, Canadian, Brazilian, and Swiss. I flip through them one by one, finding my photo staring back at me from each, though the names vary.

Adam Schumacher. Adam Taylor. Adam Senna. Adam Mueller.

“Jesus, she really did plan for everything,” I mutter, selecting the Canadian passport and slipping it into my pocket.

I sigh as I walk past the arsenal of weapons, my feet dragging slightly. Sleek black handguns arranged by size. Rifles mounted on custom racks.

I frown, stopping in front of a glass-fronted cabinet containing several handguns.

“I hate this,” I mutter, my voice sounding foreign in the sterile air of the safe room. “But I don’t know what’s out there or who’s out there.”

My hand hovers uncertainly over the selection. I’ve never owned a gun, never wanted one. The most dangerous thing I’ve ever handled was a particularly sharp kitchen knife.

I select what looks like the simplest handgun, a matte black pistol that seems less intimidating than the others. It’s surprisingly heavy in my palm, the weight of it making my stomach clench with anxiety.

“Safety, safety,” I whisper, examining the weapon with cautious fingers. “This thing has to have a safety.”

I locate what I think is the safety switch and carefully make sure it’s in place, praying I’ve got it right. The last thing I need is to shoot myself in the foot while trying to escape.

Once I’m reasonably confident the gun won’t go off accidentally, I wrap it in a small towel from a nearby shelf and tuck it deep into the duffel bag, burying it beneath the stacks of cash. The weight of it settles at the bottom like a stone, a deadly secret beneath my newfound wealth.

“I feel like a really bad guy,” I say to the empty room, guilt washing over me in waves. Not just for taking the gun but for everything, the money, the passport, the betrayal implicit in my actions.

For a brief, wavering moment, I consider putting everything back. Returning everything to it’s proper places and pretending this moment of rebellion never happened. Maybe this is a mistake. Maybe I should just stay. Maybe I could learn to live with the violence, the danger, the unpredictability of life with Caterina.

But then the image flashes in my mind again: a hand severed at the wrist, falling with a wet thud onto plastic sheeting. Blood pooling in an ever-widening circle. A woman’s muffled screams as Lara stands over her with a cleaver, wild eyes alight with manic glee.

“Fuck that,” I breathe, my resolve hardening. “No way.”

I zip the duffel bag closed with a decisive motion, slinging it over my shoulder. The weight of it is substantial, but manageable, the physical manifestation of my stolen freedom.

I head for the door, the duffel bag heavy against my side, a constant reminder of what I’m doing. My heart is thundering so loud I’m certain the doorman will hear it when I pass. I grab my jacket off the coat rack by the elevator, a sleek navy blazer Caterina bought me last week.

‘It’s actually a really nice blazer.’ I sigh as it sets in I have to kiss my lavish life goodbye.

I snatch a pair of designer sunglasses from the side table, sliding them onto my nose to hide my fading black eye. The world dims to a comfortable shade.

‘Is this what Travis meant by Sicko mode?’

Before I leave I double check to make sure I don’t have my phone on me. Where I’m going I’m sure she’ll just use it to track me.

The elevator ride to the lobby stretches into eternity. Each floor ticks by with agonizing slowness while my mind races through all the ways this could go wrong. Caterina could come home early. One of her people could be watching the building. The doorman could be instructed to report my movements.

The doors finally slide open with a cheerful ding that feels mockingly bright, given my current state of mind. I step out, trying to project casual confidence as I cross the marble expanse of the lobby. The door woman nods politely in my direction, and I return the gesture, fighting the urge to duck my head or run.

Halfway to the revolving doors, a horrible realization hits me, I don’t have a hat. My head could be distinctive, I’m not sure. Security cameras will pick me up instantly. Caterina probably has people monitoring the feeds.

“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath. “Should I go back up?”

The thought of returning to the penthouse makes my stomach clench. If I go back now, I might lose my nerve entirely. But without something to cover my head, I’m practically announcing my escape attempt to anyone looking.

My eyes scan the lobby desperately, seeking anything that might serve as a disguise. The pristine space offers little a few tasteful arrangements of flowers, some modernist furniture, a bench where visitors can wait.

And there, on that bench, abandoned and forgotten, sits a baseball cap. Bright blue, facing away from me, so I can’t see the logo. There’s no one around, no obvious owner waiting to reclaim it.

I don’t hesitate. Don’t think. Don’t consider that this might be the most obvious petty theft ever committed in this high-end building. I simply veer toward the bench, snatch the cap without breaking stride, and continue toward the exit as if this was my plan all along.

“What a lucky day for me,” I say under my breath, shoving the cap onto my head without even checking what team it represents.

‘I hope it’s not the fucking chargers.’

[A/N: Bolt up.]

[A/N: I am not a Chargers fan.]

*****

I climb up the stairs out of the dingey orange line station into Boston. The sunlight hits my face like a physical force after the dim fluorescence of the subway, making me squint behind my designer sunglasses. Around me, the city pulses with midday energy, businesswomen in sharp suits striding purposefully, delivery drivers weaving through traffic, tourists consulting their phones with puzzled expressions.

The duffel bag feels like it’s getting heavier by the second, the weight of a quarter million dollars and a stolen gun pulling at my shoulder like physical manifestation of my guilt. I adjust the strap, trying to look casual like I’m just another commuter heading home after a morning meeting.

I can see the TD Garden a distance away, the sports center that houses North Station. Its distinctive architecture rises above the surrounding buildings, a beacon guiding me toward the next step in my escape plan. The commuter rail to Beverly leaves from there, whisking me northward to a place where, hopefully, Caterina’s influence isn’t quite so absolute.

“This is weirdly going well so far,” I say to myself, immediately regretting speaking aloud as a woman in a charcoal pantsuit glances in my direction.

‘Granted every women on the subway gave me a sad look like they pitted me. I’m not sure why but they never lingered long.’

I check my new watch, one i picked up on the way to the subway. I’ve got forty minutes until the next train to Beverly. Enough time to get to North Station, buy a ticket, and board without rushing, without looking suspicious.

The thought sends a fresh wave of anxiety coursing through me. What if Caterina has already noticed I’m gone? What if she’s tracking me right now? What if there are people waiting at North Station, ready to intercept me before I can even buy a ticket?

“Stop it,” I mutter, forcing myself to keep walking at a normal pace when every instinct screams at me to run. “You’re being paranoid.”

But am I? This is a woman who casually admitted to stalking me before we even met. Who has connections throughout the city that I can’t even begin to comprehend.

As I walk into North Station, life feels familiar in a way that’s both comforting and jarring. The cavernous space echoes with announcements over the PA system, the clatter of luggage wheels against tile, and the constant murmur of conversations. Throuples huddle over shared phones, planning their journeys…

‘Wait, no, that’s new.’

And, just like in my old world, there’s a cluster of homeless people hovering near the McDonald’s, their possessions gathered in weathered backpacks and repurposed shopping bags. They sit with practiced stillness, invisible to the hurrying crowds, except when someone tosses spare change into a cup or deliberately gives them a wide berth.

“Just like how it was in my old world,” I mutter, the familiar scene hitting me with unexpected nostalgia.

I shuffle toward the ticket counter, joining the line that moves with bureaucratic slowness. My fingers tap an anxious rhythm against my thigh as I scan the station for any sign of Caterina’s people. Every woman in a suit becomes a potential threat, every glance in my direction a possible recognition.

‘Every time I make eye contact with people they frown and look away awkwardly. What’s going on?’

The line inches forward. Three people ahead of me. Then two. Then, just a small group, a man flanked by two women, all engaged in animated conversation. The man gestures emphatically while the women nod, one of them laughing at whatever point he’s making.

Something about his profile tugs at my memory, but I can’t place it. I’m too focused on looking around and trying not to get fucking caught.

‘I’m so fucking close I can almost taste it.’

The group finishes their transaction and starts to turn away from the counter. The man’s face comes into full view as he pivots, and suddenly, time seems to slow to a crawl.

Sandy, colored hair. Bright blue eyes that widen in shock as they land on me.

Those eyes, I’d know them anywhere.

He freezes mid-step, staring at me like he’s seen a ghost. His mouth opens, closes, opens again as he struggles to process what he’s seeing.

“Adam? You’re alive!?” he finally manages, his voice cracking on my name. His eyes fill with tears so quickly it’s like someone turned on a faucet behind them.

My own vision blurs instantly in response, hot tears welling up and spilling over before I can even think to stop them.

“Connor?”