Chapter 17 Learning The Rules
"Yes. Rules." She turned and walked toward the door, clearly expecting him to follow. "Come."
Cedric hesitated for half a second, then followed her into the hallway. Because what else was he going to do? Refuse? Stay in the bedroom until Falcone came back and made him cooperate anyway?
The hallway was just as intimidating as he remembered from last night. Wide enough to drive a car through, with marble floors that probably cost more than a car, and walls lined with art that made Cedric feel vaguely stupid for not knowing what he was looking at.
Mrs. Kozlov moved briskly, her sensible shoes clicking against the marble with military precision. Cedric hurried to keep up, acutely aware that he was barefoot and probably leaving sweaty footprints on stone that cost more per square inch than his life.
"The east wing," Mrs. Kozlov said, gesturing down one corridor, "is where the staff quarters are located. You will not go there unless specifically invited. The west wing houses Mr. Falcone's business associates and senior personnel. You will not go there either unless accompanied."
"Okay," Cedric said. "So, uh, where am I supposed to go?"
"The main house. The second floor, where your bedroom is located. The kitchen, though you will not need to use it. The library, the gym, the sitting rooms." She paused at the top of the grand staircase, turning to face him. "You are a guest, Mr. Santos. You will behave as one."
There was something pointed in the way she said "guest," like it was in quotation marks. Like they both knew that wasn't quite the right word for what Cedric was.
"Right," Cedric said. "Guest. Got it."
They descended the staircase, and Cedric tried not to feel like he was walking into a museum exhibit. Everything was so pristine, so perfectly arranged, that it felt wrong to touch anything. Like his fingerprints might somehow tarnish the marble or dull the shine of the brass railings.
At the bottom of the stairs, Mrs. Kozlov turned left, leading him through an archway into what could only be described as a sitting room, though that felt like too modest a word. It was enormous, with leather furniture that looked like it had never been sat on, another massive fireplace that probably cost more than a car (Cedric was starting to notice a pattern), and windows that overlooked a garden so perfectly manicured it looked fake.
"Mr. Falcone takes breakfast in the solarium," Mrs. Kozlov said, continuing through the sitting room without pausing. "Lunch is served wherever he happens to be working. Dinner is in the formal dining room unless he specifies otherwise."
"And where am I supposed to eat?" Cedric asked.
Mrs. Kozlov glanced back at him, one eyebrow raised slightly. "With Mr. Falcone, of course. Unless he tells you otherwise."
Of course. Because Cedric's entire existence now apparently revolved around Falcone's schedule.
They passed through another room, this one lined with bookshelves that reached from floor to ceiling, filled with more books than Cedric had ever seen outside of a library. A rolling ladder attached to a brass rail allowed access to the higher shelves. There was a desk by the window, mahogany and massive, with a green banker's lamp and a leather chair that looked like it cost more than Cedric's college tuition would have.
"The library," Mrs. Kozlov said, as if this were obvious. "You may use it freely."
"I can?"
"Yes. Mr. Falcone encourages reading."
That was... unexpected. Cedric glanced at the shelves, trying to read the spines as they passed. He caught glimpses of titles he recognized and many more he didn't. Classic literature, modern fiction, history, philosophy, books in languages he couldn't read.
"Does he actually read all these?" Cedric asked.
Mrs. Kozlov's expression didn't change. "Mr. Falcone is a very well-educated man."
Which wasn't really an answer, but Cedric didn't push.
They emerged into what Mrs. Kozlov had called the solarium, and Cedric stopped walking entirely.
It was a glass-walled room that jutted out from the back of the house, surrounded on three sides by windows that looked out onto the garden. Morning sunlight poured in, warm and golden, illuminating a space that felt more like a greenhouse than a dining room. There were plants everywhere, lush and green and thriving, hanging from the ceiling in brass planters and sitting in ceramic pots on wrought-iron stands. The air smelled like earth and growing things, fresh and alive in a way that seemed impossible in the middle of the city.
In the center of the room was a table, round and made of dark wood, set with white china and silver cutlery that gleamed in the sunlight. There were covered dishes arranged along the center, steam rising from beneath the lids, and a carafe of what looked like fresh orange juice.
And sitting at the table, reading a newspaper with his coffee in hand, was Falcone.
He looked up when they entered, his dark eyes finding Cedric immediately. His expression was unreadable, that same mask of calm control he always wore, but something shifted when he saw Cedric standing there in the clothes he'd left out.
Satisfaction, maybe. Or possession.
"Good morning," Falcone said. His voice was warm, casual, like they were old friends meeting for brunch. Like he hadn't been fucking Cedric into the mattress less than eight hours ago.
"Morning," Cedric managed.
"Mrs. Kozlov, thank you," Falcone said, not looking away from Cedric. "That will be all."
Mrs. Kozlov inclined her head and disappeared back through the doorway they'd come from, her footsteps fading into silence.
And then it was just the two of them.
Falcone set his newspaper aside, folding it with precise movements. "Come sit."
Cedric's feet moved automatically, carrying him across the room to the empty chair across from Falcone. He sat, and the chair was as comfortable as it looked, probably custom-made, probably worth more than most people's cars.
Falcone reached for the nearest covered dish and lifted the lid, revealing scrambled eggs that looked fluffy and perfect. "Help yourself," he said, his tone easy. "Mrs. Kozlov's staff makes an excellent breakfast."
Cedric stared at the food. There were eggs, bacon that looked crispy and perfect, toast that was still warm, fresh fruit arranged in a bowl like art, pastries that belonged in a bakery window. It was more food than Cedric usually ate in a day, laid out casually like it was nothing.
His stomach growled, betraying him.
Falcone smiled, just slightly. "Eat, Cedric."
So Cedric ate.
He filled his plate with more food than he probably needed, suddenly ravenous in a way he hadn't realized until the smell hit him. The eggs were perfect, buttery and soft. The bacon was crispy without being burnt. The toast was the kind of bread that cost eight dollars a loaf and tasted like actual grain instead of processed flour and air.
Falcone watched him eat, sipping his coffee with that same unreadable expression.
"Sleep well?" he asked after a moment.
Cedric swallowed a bite of toast. "Yeah. Bed's... really comfortable."
"Good." Falcone set his coffee down. "You'll be staying in that room for now. Eventually, you'll move into the master suite with me, but I thought you might want a transition period."
Cedric's fork stopped halfway to his mouth. "Move in with you?"
"Yes." Falcone said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "That's how this works, Cedric. You live here. With me."
"Right." Cedric set his fork down, his appetite suddenly gone. "And what exactly does 'this' entail?"
Falcone leaned back in his chair, studying him. "Mrs. Kozlov explained the basic house rules, I assume?"
"She said I'm a guest and I should behave like one."
"A guest," Falcone repeated, something amused in his tone. "That's one way to put it." He picked up his coffee again, taking another slow sip. "You're free to move around the house as you please. Use the library, the gym, the pool. Anything in the main house is yours to enjoy."
"But not the east or west wings."
"No. Those are off-limits unless I'm with you." Falcone's eyes were steady on his. "My business is my business, Cedric. You don't need to know the details."
Which was rich, considering Cedric was supposed to be spying on him. "And if I want to leave?"
"Then you call me first." No room for negotiation in Falcone's voice. "You don't go anywhere without telling me where you're going and when you'll be back."
"That's not... that's basically house arrest."
"That's protection," Falcone corrected. "You have enemies now, Cedric. People who would hurt you to get to me. The only way I can keep you safe is if I know where you are at all times."
"And if I don't agree to that?"
Falcone set his coffee down with a soft click. "Then you're welcome to leave right now. Walk out that door, go back to your burned-out apartment and your debt and your life of selling yourself in bathroom stalls." He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping. "Is that what you want?"
Cedric's jaw clenched. No. That wasn't what he wanted. That's why he was here. But that didn't mean he had to like being treated like property.
"I want my phone," he said finally.
"You have your phone."
"I want to be able to call my mom. And my sister. Without asking permission first."
Falcone considered this. "Agreed. Your family is important to you. I won't interfere with that." He paused. "But if Marcus Chen calls, you tell me immediately."
"Why?"
"Because he's not your friend, Cedric. He's using you, and when he's done, he'll throw you away like garbage." Falcone's expression hardened slightly. "I won't let that happen."
The possessiveness in his voice should've been terrifying. Instead, it made something warm and dangerous unfurl in Cedric's chest.
"Anything else?" Falcone asked.
Cedric thought about it. "I want to keep working at the club."
"Why?"
"Because sitting around this house all day is going to drive me crazy. And because I need to feel like I'm doing something, not just... sitting around waiting for you."
Falcone's lips curved slightly. "You want to feel useful."
"I want to feel like a person," Cedric shot back. "Not a pet."
The silence stretched between them, charged and heavy. Then Falcone nodded. "Fine. You can work at Elysium. Three nights a week. And you'll have security with you at all times."
"I don't need—"
"Non-negotiable," Falcone interrupted. "Three nights a week, with security. Take it or leave it."
Cedric wanted to argue. Wanted to push back, to assert some kind of independence. But Falcone was giving him more than he'd expected, and they both knew it.
"Fine," he said finally. "Three nights. With security."
"Good." Falcone picked up his newspaper again, his posture relaxing. "Now finish your breakfast. We have a busy day ahead."
"We?"
"Yes." Falcone glanced up, his dark eyes meeting Cedric's. "I'm taking you shopping."
Cedric blinked. "Shopping."
"For clothes. You'll need more than what I left out for you this morning." Falcone turned a page of his newspaper, casual as anything. "And shoes. And anything else you might need."
"I don't need—"
"Yes, you do." Falcone's tone was firm. "You live here now, Cedric. That means you dress appropriately. I won't have you walking around in rags."
"My clothes weren't rags," Cedric muttered.
Falcone just raised an eyebrow.
Cedric looked down at the designer joggers and expensive t-shirt he was wearing, then thought about his old jeans with the hole in the knee and the band t-shirts he'd bought secondhand. Okay. Maybe "rags" wasn't that far off.
"Fine," he said, stabbing a piece of bacon with more force than necessary. "Shopping. Great."
Falcone smiled, and it was genuine this time, reaching his eyes. "Don't pout, Cedric. You might even enjoy it."
"I doubt that."
"We'll see."
They ate in silence for a few minutes, the morning sun warm on Cedric's back, the sound of birds filtering in from the garden. It was peaceful, domestic almost, and that was maybe the most unsettling part of all.
This was his life now.
Living in a mansion with a crime lord who dressed him and fed him and fucked him like he owned him.