Damon – the man who’d kicked the crap out of the guy who had tried to assault him, who was obsessed with feeding him, who worried after him, who was so desperate to get Micah off the streets that he’d bought him thousands of dollars’ worth of clothes and wanted to pay him ten grand a week to go on dates with him – was, apparently, a mafia don.

He knew that if his father – the fucking captain of the police force – said it, that it was irrevocably true.

Yet, Micah couldn’t reconcile the polarizing versions of the man in his head. Damon had been so unflinchingly kind to Micah. Sure, he was bossy, and it was obvious Damon was rich – like ridiculously, filthy rich-

Micah’s thoughts came to a screeching halt.

Damon was filthy rich – and in the police force, it was commonly understood why they called it “filthy”: because you didn’t accumulate that sort of wealth without getting blood on your hands.

Micah recalled asking Damon what he did for a living to make so much money, and being told he worked in “finances” – that he had his hands in a lot of projects, but mostly real estate. In hindsight, that answer had been shady as fuck.

Micah should have known better – especially as a police detective.

Shit.

What if Damon found out that the “prostitute” he’d hired to be his personal escort was a cop?

The man knew where he lived.

Shitshitshitshitshit. Micah was a fool – a complete fucking idiot.

And worst of all, deep down in the fiber of his bones, Micah knew he still liked him. The attraction he felt towards Damon could be excused. He was a fine specimen of a man, no matter how you diced it – moonlighting as a mafia boss or not. But Micah, honest-to-God, genuinely cared about him.

Micah dug the palms of his hands as hard as he could into his eye sockets, willing the disturbing realization to dissipate. He wasn’t going to think about it. So his life was a bigger, hotter dumpster fire than he’d thought; he could have a mental breakdown about it later. Right now, he needed to concentrate on his job. There were two parents of a nineteen-year-old kid who needed him to find their son.

It was the thought of Nico alone that staved off the panic attack Micah could feel brewing on the horizon. He yanked several paper towels out from the expender – perhaps more violently then they deserved – and patted dry his face.

Even as he got back to work, however, Micah couldn’t help but think he’d been wrong about Mondays, after all.

They truly did colossally suck.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Tuesday was only a hair more tolerable than Monday.

Micah had stayed late Monday evening – much longer than the fifteen minutes he had been late to work called for – but he kept himself busy the entire while, only leaving when dusk had fallen.