Chapter 3
Our final days in Philadelphia pass quickly. They’re days full of shopping bags, tourist landmarks, and Monroe’s mother insisting we try even more restaurants she swears are the best in existence.
I indulge her. I indulge both of them.
It’s become a surprising enjoyable past time watching Monroe and her mother together. They move through department stores with the intensity and focus of military operatives and laugh so sweetly when they share a mother/daughter moment, how can I not find it engaging?
I’ve long since lost the fight of trying to deny I have a soft spot for Monroe Ross—and by extension, her mother.
I carry what they hand me without complaint, trailing behind as they debate the merits of one dress over another, or discuss a street market we’ll be attending later.
It’s foreign to me, this kind of domesticity. The casual intimacy of family rituals I never had. But I find I don’t mind it as much as I once would have.
The man I was before meeting Monroe is almost an entirely different one than who I am today. That Jin was cold and closed off, completely against the idea he could ever truly care for anyone.
I was ruled by discipline. I sought domination and success at all times.
The man I am today is still guided by those same principles and desires. But he is also capable of recognizing he is human, and with that comes caring for others at times.
A few select others, but others just the same.
…which is maybe why the goodbye at the airport is harder than I anticipated.
Monroe’s mother clings to her daughter like she’s afraid to let go, tears streaming down her cheeks as she reminds her to call every week and to stay safe.
Then she turns to me, and before I can react, she pulls me into an embrace that catches me off guard. Her motherly warmth surrounds me, serving as a reminder that Daisha Ross means it when she says I’m becoming like a son to her.
I’ve never experienced motherly love like this—or have memory of, having lost my mother so young.
“Take care of my baby,” she whispers against my ear. “She’s all I have.”
I nod once, stiff in her arms but appreciating the gesture more than she probably realizes. “I will. I will always take care of her.”
What Monroe’s mother doesn’t know—what we’ve chosen not to tell her yet—is that her baby is now carrying a baby of her own.
Monroe and I discussed it during quiet nights in her mother’s guest room, tangled together in the dark, speaking in hushed voices about what comes next.
The pregnancy is still early. We don’t even know how many weeks along she is, only that it’s new enough that anything could happen. It felt premature to share the news before we’ve fully processed it ourselves.
So for now, it remains ours. A secret held between us until we decide we’re ready to share. But when we do, her mother will be first to know.
“I’m never getting on another plane again.”
Monroe sighs as she steps through the door and kicks off her tennis shoes.
I’m half a pace behind her, our luggage in hand.
I set both suitcases down as she’s already wandered over to the couch and unfastened the button on her jeans.
She throws herself down as if she plans on never getting up again.
“You said that after the flight to Philadelphia as well,” I point out.
“Yeah, but now I really mean it—the bloat and nausea are the final straws.”
I cross the living room of the apartment we now share.
After my last apartment was set ablaze and Monroe’s became a target of our enemies, we made the decision to move in together.
But it was crucial we found a location that wasn’t sullied by past events, which is why we chose Namcheon-dong, an urban but upscale residential neighborhood in Busan that’s lined with cherry blossom trees and small, artisan cafés.
It’s one of the safest areas in the city, and our apartment has quickly become home.
Monroe fell in love with the spacious rooms and other details like the quartz countertops, heated hardwood floors, and the private balcony where she likes to drink her morning tea.
I come to sit down beside her, my gaze falling to her stomach. She’s tugged up her shirt and exposed her belly as if expecting a beer gut to flop out.
In truth, you can’t even tell she is pregnant yet. But in typical Monroe fashion, she pinches at the flesh ’til she’s created a layer of fat.
“See this? It’s bloat—my jeans are already tighter!”
“Maybe it has to do with the short ribs you had on the flight here,” I tease, poking at the soft flesh. “Or maybe it’s all in your head, Tokki-ya. You’re a long way before the huge, round belly. But when it does come, I look forward to it.”
“I’m thinking I’ll just ditch any pants from here on out. Live in dresses and skirts for the next nine months. They’re a lot less judgmental and don’t leave teeth marks on the skin.”
I answer her by leaning over and capturing her plush, full lips in a kiss.
It’s my way of reassuring her. Letting her know that whatever she chooses to wear, it doesn’t matter.
The truth is, this pregnancy has left us both stunned.
Monroe processes it outwardly—every mood swing attributed to hormones, every craving analyzed and discussed, and even the slightest change in her body examined and reported in detail.
I process it differently. More silently and internally. Turning the reality over in my mind like a problem I’m trying to solve.
I know how to lead men into violence and emerge victorious. I know how to command respect and instill fear. For many years now, I’ve navigated the brutal politics of the Baekho Pa.
But being a father?
The concept still feels foreign. Abstract.
It took me a while to feel confident I could be a worthy husband to Monroe—and she is worthy of the world and more—but now there’s a child to consider.
A life that will depend on me in ways I’m not sure I’m equipped to handle.
Yet…
As soon as I glance at Monroe slouched on our couch, her stomach exposed, her expression blended between exhaustion and relief to be home, there’s no denying the love.
The deep feelings I have for her, and now for the tiny life that grows inside her. It’s a warmth that spreads through me until it consumes.
Until I have the overwhelming urge and sense of duty to give her everything.
If she believes we can do this—that I can do this—then perhaps I can. I’m equipped to be a father after all.
“You’re staring,” she murmurs suddenly.
“I’m… observing.”
Her lips curve into a slight smile. “You mean like how you observed me those couple weeks you were stalking me?”
“I was a chaperone. Making sure you got home safely and no one bothered you.”
She snorts. “Yeah, you mean like the hitman you hired?”
“And killed for you.”
“What was his crime again? Actually trying to complete the job?” she asks. “Silly him. He thought you really wanted to off the person you hired him to off.”
“It wasn’t my most sensible hour,” I admit, almost grinning myself. “I was very confused back then. Besides, I did instruct him to be gentle. To make it painless.”
“Gently kill someone—do you hear yourself right now?”
I shut her up with yet another kiss to the lips. Harder and more aggressive this time, allowing a hand to slide down the shapely curve of her body.
“Yes, I do,” I mutter against her lips. “It just shows how you made a very rational man like me so very irrational, Tokki-ya. Consider it an achievement.”
Her face lights up prettily. “Believe me, I do. It’s not every day the Silent Hunter falls in love with the woman he was supposed to eighty-six. Now the real question is: What is he going to feed his pregnant fiancée for dinner?”
A wolfish, spur of the moment, laugh escapes me. A rarity, but if there’s anyone that can make it happen, it’s Monroe.
I pinch her cheek as I get up from the couch and head toward the kitchen where we have a drawer full of takeout menus. “I should’ve known. Everything always comes down to food with you, Tokki-ya.”
It’s a few days before either of us feel back to ourselves again. The jet lag wears off, and our bodies readjust to life on South Korea’s time.
I’m more than ready to get back to work. I turn up at the Claw Lounge, the club that belongs to the Baekho Pa and has served as our headquarters for decades.
In the wake of Kim Jae-hyun’s death, I’ve ensured the place was renovated. Gone are many of the tawdry, tacky furnishings and deterioration that happened under his watch.
The club has been modernized. It’s a place where our men and associates can still come to drink, gamble, and enjoy themselves, but there are limits.
We are no longer a syndicate celebrating excess; we are about being disciplined and dominant, fiercely ruling over our territory in Busan.
When I step through the doors of my office, two men are already waiting.
Lieutenant Nam Joo-wan lounges in one of the leather chairs, a glass of soju dangling from his fingers despite the early hour.
He’s a wiry man with slicked-back hair and shrewd eyes that never seem to stop calculating.
His laugh is loud, his opinions louder, and he drinks like a fish.
There’s an arrogance to him that grates on me, though I’ve never questioned his competence.
Standing near the window is Park Min-gyu, one of my most reliable hubaes.
He’s young—barely twenty-five—but built like a bull, with broad shoulders and hands that have done more damage than most men twice his age.
Unlike the lieutenant, Min-gyu is principled and dutiful, his loyalty proven time and again.
“Jin-tae,” Nam greets me, raising his glass in a mock salute. “Welcome back. How was the Land of Opportunity?”
“A brief but needed reprieve,” I answer vaguely. I move through the room hardly sparing either of them a glance. “Update me about what’s happened in my absence.”
Joo-wan sets down his drink and straightens slightly, though his posture remains more casual than I’d prefer.
“Business as usual, for the most part. We collected on the outstanding debts from the gambling rings—the ones who thought they could stall got a reminder of why that’s inadvisable. Nothing you wouldn’t expect.”
“And the Bulgeomhoe?”
Joo-wan waves a dismissive hand. “They’ve been sniffing around the South Gyeongsang Province again. Some of their boys got cocky and tried to shake down a few businesses under our protection. We handled it.”
“Handled it how?”
“Sent a message, of course!” he answers boisterously, adding a loud laugh. “Broke a few bones. Left them bloodied and bruised. They scurried back to their territory with their tails between their legs.”
I study him for a moment, reading the satisfaction in his expression. Lieutenant Nam enjoys violence when it serves his ego. It makes him effective but also reckless at times.
These are observations I was aware of even when I was a Ho-gwi, still a captain working up the ladder of the Baekho Pa.
“If it was handled,” I say slowly, “then why do I sense there’s more?”
Joo-wan’s mouth opens to refute my suspicions, but Min-gyu interjects first. He’s stepped forward with a bow of his head.
“There was another altercation, Baekho-je. Last night a group of Bulgeomhoe enforcers harassed a restaurant owner in Gimhae. Threatened his family. Our men intervened, but...” He hesitates, glancing at Joo-wan. “It seems the message didn’t stick.”
The lieutenant’s expression sours. “It was a dust-up. Nothing more. These things happen. The Bulgeomhoe are dogs—they bark, we bite, they retreat. It’s the natural order.”
“The natural order,” I repeat, “or the disrespectful order we’ve tolerated until now?”
I move around my desk to look out at the city streets. The Claw Lounge is located on a street that’s mostly dedicated to commerce, nondescript to anybody who doesn’t know what goes on inside.
But the rest of Busan can be seen from the window of my office, the city looming in the near distance.
The Bulgeomhoe have been a thorn in the Baekho Pa’s side for years—a scrappy, vicious little gang that lacks the resources to truly challenge us but refuses to accept their place in the hierarchy.
They’re opportunistic and always testing boundaries. Seeing how far they can push before we push back.
Joo-wan is wrong to dismiss them so easily.
“We strike,” I say, turning back to face them. “Tomorrow night. A coordinated hit on their operations in the contested zones. Enough to remind them that encroaching on Baekho territory has consequences.”
Joo-wan’s brow furrows. “With respect, Jin-tae, that might be an overreaction. It was just a dust-up. If we escalate—”
“Your input is appreciated, Lieutenant,” I interrupt sharply. “But you are no longer in charge. I am. My decision is to ensure the Bulgeomhoe understand their place.”
Tension mounts in the room as Nam Joo-wan holds my gaze for a second longer than is wise then dips his head in a curt nod. He must not realize I’ve also noticed how his grip on his glass of soju has tightened or how his mouth presses into a thin line.
“As you command, Jin-tae,” he says simply.
“Min-gyu.” I turn to the younger man. “Assemble a team. I want this done cleanly. No unnecessary damage but forceful enough that they feel it.”
Min-gyu bows, his expression serious. “Understood.”
The two men file out of my office, and I remain at the window, watching the traffic navigate the city streets below.
The Bulgeomhoe are manageable. Annoying, but not an existential threat. The Baekho Pa has weathered worse and emerged stronger.
But this enemy of ours still needs reminding of who truly rules these streets.
The Baekho Pa does not tolerate disrespect.
And neither do I.