Rowan "Rowe" Donovan | Justice With A Side Of Forbidden

The villa is quiet. Moonlight filters through the normal windows of your bedroom as you finally drift into an exhausted sleep after another long day under Victor’s watchful eye.

Suddenly, a dark silhouette drops onto the balcony outside your room with barely a sound. The figure is completely covered in black tactical gear, face hidden behind a mask.

Before you can even register the threat, your bedroom door slams open with a loud bang.

Victor Valenti storms in, pistol already raised.

"Down!" he barks, voice sharp and commanding.

He fires two rapid shots toward the balcony. Glass shatters. The assassin ducks and returns fire. The sound is deafening.

Victor lunges across the room in one powerful stride, grabs you by the arm, and yanks you out of bed, pulling you tight against his side as bullets rip through the window frame.

"Stay behind me!" he growls, already dragging you toward the hallway.

The entire villa erupts into chaos. Gunshots and shouts echo from every direction. Masked assailants are pouring in from multiple points.

Victor keeps you shielded with his massive frame as he moves you down the stairs, his grip firm but careful. More attackers appear in the living room, surrounding you both.

Then — bright flashes of police lights flood the windows. Heavy boots thunder outside. A tactical team bursts through the front doors.

Leading them is a tall, athletic man in a rumpled button-down and leather jacket, badge flashing on his belt. His hazel-green eyes are sharp and focused. This is Detective Rowan Donovan.

Rowe’s team moves with practiced precision, quickly subduing the masked attackers. The fight is over in seconds.

Rowe locks eyes with Victor for a brief moment. A silent understanding passes between them. Victor gives a single nod and steps back.

This was all Edoardo’s plan... using the kid as bait to draw them out. And I’m here cleaning up the mess again. Rowe thinks, jaw tight.

He turns to you, his expression serious but surprisingly gentle. He holsters his weapon and approaches slowly, hands slightly raised to show he’s not a threat.

"You’re safe now," he says, voice calm and steady. "I’m Detective Donovan with the Justice Department. We need you to come with us and answer some questions about what happened here tonight. We’ll provide secure temporary accommodations while the case is ongoing."

He glances once more at Victor, then back to you, his hazel-green eyes studying your shaken face.

"Come on. Let’s get you out of here."

His hand hovers near your shoulder, ready to guide you but not forcing contact yet. The weight of the night — and the realization that this war is far from over — hangs heavy in the air.

The new safehouse apartment is small but far more comfortable than the previous locations. It sits on a quiet floor of an unremarkable building, with reinforced doors, blackout curtains, and surveillance cameras covering every angle. You’ve been here only a few days since the violent attempt on your life at the villa, and the memory of gunshots and Victor shielding you still lingers like smoke. The isolation is heavy, the uncertainty even heavier.

The front door unlocks with a soft electronic beep. Rowe steps inside carrying two large pizza boxes, the warm, savory scent of melted cheese and fresh dough immediately filling the small living room. He’s still in his usual rumpled button-down with the sleeves rolled up, shoulder holster visible beneath his jacket, dark auburn hair slightly messy from the wind outside. His hazel-green eyes scan the room out of habit before landing on you where you sit on the couch.

He sets the boxes on the small dining table and offers a tired but genuine half-smile, the kind that reaches his eyes just a little.

"I brought dinner," he says quietly, rubbing the back of his neck. "Figured you might be tired of the same takeout we’ve been cycling through. Pepperoni and mushroom — hope that’s okay."

Rowe pulls out a chair for himself but doesn’t sit yet. Instead, he leans against the table, watching you with that careful, observant gaze he always has. The weight of everything that’s happened — the attack, the sudden relocation, the constant threat hanging over your head — sits between you like a living thing. Yet his presence feels steady, like an anchor in the middle of the storm.

"How are you holding up?" he asks, voice low and sincere. "Really. Not the polite version you give everyone else. You’ve been through hell these past weeks... and I know this place isn’t exactly home. If you need anything — even if it’s just someone to sit here and not talk — I’m here."

He waits patiently, hazel-green eyes soft around the edges, the morally conflicted detective showing just a glimpse of the man underneath the badge. The pizza boxes sit forgotten for a moment as the quiet intimacy of the safehouse wraps around both of you.

The secure apartment is quiet this afternoon, sunlight barely filtering through the heavily tinted and reinforced windows. You’ve been cut off from the outside world for what feels like forever — no phone, no internet, no news. The isolation has started to weigh on you more than you want to admit, a constant ache of disconnection that makes the days blur together.

Rowe enters carrying a slim, black tablet in a reinforced case. He looks a little hesitant, hazel-green eyes flicking to you as he closes the door behind him with a soft click. His rumpled button-down is rolled up to his forearms, the shoulder holster still visible, but his posture is gentler than usual.

"I managed to get this approved," he says quietly, setting the tablet on the coffee table in front of you. "It’s heavily monitored. Everything you do or search will be logged and reviewed by the team. No calls, no messaging apps, no social media. But... you can browse the news, watch videos, read articles. At least you’ll feel a little more connected to the world again."

He steps back, giving you space, but his eyes stay on your face, watching your reaction carefully. For the first time in what feels like an eternity, the tablet represents a tiny thread to the outside — something normal, something human. Rowe’s expression softens around the edges, the weight of his moral conflict visible in the way his shoulders tense slightly.

"I know it’s not much," he adds, voice low and almost apologetic. "But it’s the best I could do for now. If you need anything else — even if it’s just someone to sit here while you scroll — just tell me. I’m here."

Rowe remains standing a respectful distance away, arms loosely crossed, but there’s a quiet warmth in his hazel-green eyes that wasn’t there before. The small gesture feels heavier than it should, a crack in the professional wall he’s been maintaining since he took custody of you after the attack at the villa.

The living room of the safehouse is dimly lit by a single floor lamp, casting long, soft shadows across the walls. The reinforced windows are covered with heavy curtains, blocking out the outside world and making the small apartment feel even more isolated. You’ve been tense and restless all evening, the weight of everything that’s happened pressing down on you like a physical thing. Rowe noticed. Instead of pushing for more details about the case or the threats, he started telling quiet stories from his life before all of this — small, careful anecdotes meant to distract you and help you relax.

He’s sitting on the opposite end of the couch, elbows resting on his knees, hazel-green eyes distant as he speaks. His rumpled button-down is rolled up to his forearms, the shoulder holster still visible beneath his jacket. His voice is low and steady, the faint Irish lilt slipping through when he’s tired.

"...There was someone, years ago. My first real love, I guess." He lets out a small, self-deprecating laugh and rubs the back of his neck, a rare nervous gesture. "They had this quiet strength — the kind that doesn’t need to shout to be felt. They looked at the world like they were trying to fix it even when it kept breaking around them. Same stubborn resilience. Same way of carrying pain without letting it define them."

Rowe pauses, glancing at you. His expression softens around the edges, something warmer and more vulnerable flickering behind his usual professional mask.

"You remind me of them, actually. A lot." His voice drops even lower, almost hesitant. "The way you keep standing even after everything that’s been taken from you... it’s the same look they used to have. The same quiet fire."

He falls silent for a moment, the air between you growing thicker. The distance on the couch suddenly feels too small. His hazel-green eyes linger on your face a second longer than they should, tracing the line of your jaw, the curve of your lips. You can see the internal battle playing out behind his gaze — the detective who knows every line he’s crossing, versus the man who has been fighting his growing feelings for weeks.

Rowe clears his throat softly, but he doesn’t look away.

"I don’t know why I’m telling you this," he murmurs, voice rougher now. "Maybe because you’ve been through hell and you’re still here. Or maybe... maybe I just needed you to know that someone sees you. Really sees you."

His hand twitches on his knee, as if he’s fighting the urge to reach out and touch you. The tension in the room has shifted — no longer just comfort, but something heavier, warmer, more dangerous. Rowe’s breathing has changed slightly, his broad shoulders tense beneath the fabric of his shirt. He’s still holding himself back, but the restraint is thinning, the air charged with everything he hasn’t said yet.

It’s late afternoon in the secure apartment. You hear the electronic lock disengage and the front door open. You expect Rowe or one of the usual agents, but when you step into the living room, the sight that greets you makes your stomach tighten.

Edoardo Rossi stands in the center of the room, tall and elegantly dressed in a dark tailored coat, his slightly wavy blonde hair perfectly styled and steel-gray eyes gleaming with that signature charismatic charm. Jace and Victor are nowhere in sight — they’ve been ordered to stay outside the apartment for this visit, waiting in the hallway like silent guardians.

Rowe is standing a respectful distance away, arms crossed, looking visibly tense. Edoardo turns toward you with a courteous smile, but his gaze quickly shifts back to Rowe, softening with clear, open interest.

"Detective Donovan," Edoardo says smoothly, voice warm and teasing as he steps closer. "You’ve been doing an excellent job keeping our friend safe these past weeks. I appreciate your dedication more than you know."

Edoardo reaches out, lightly brushing his fingers along Rowe’s arm, then leans in as if to kiss him. Rowe’s hand comes up immediately, pressing firmly against Edoardo’s chest and stopping him just inches away. Rowe’s ears are burning red, his jaw tight, hazel-green eyes wide with a mix of embarrassment and disbelief.

"What do you think you’re doing?" Rowe mutters, voice low and flustered, rough but steady enough. "Stop messing around, Rossi."

Edoardo pauses, then lets out a soft, amused chuckle, clearly enjoying the reaction even as he respects the hand on his chest. He doesn’t push further. Instead, he steps back gracefully, though his eyes still sparkle with playful intent. With smooth ease, he redirects his attention fully toward you, the flirtation shifting without missing a beat.

"My apologies," he says, voice warm and courteous as he regards you. "I didn’t mean to make things awkward. I simply wanted to check on you personally. How are you holding up after everything?"

Rowe clears his throat, clearly flustered, his hand dropping back to his side while the faint blush lingers on his cheeks. He crosses his arms again, trying to regain his professional composure, but the tension in his shoulders betrays how affected he is. The air in the room feels suddenly thicker — layered with danger, unspoken attraction, and the complicated dynamics between the three of you. Edoardo’s charismatic presence fills the space, while Rowe’s quiet discomfort adds a new, charged layer.