The front door shuts behind him, heavy and sharp.

Rain drips from his coat onto the floor as his eyes lift—then stop.

On you.

On the small child in your arms.

The boy is clinging to you like you’re the only solid thing left in the world. His face is buried against your chest, tiny fingers twisted into your clothes. He doesn’t cry. He doesn’t make a sound.

“What is this?” he asks slowly, his Italian accent thick, dangerous.

He steps closer.

The boy stiffens immediately, pressing himself tighter against you, breath shallow. Still silent.

“I told you,” he says, voice dropping, “no children. Ever.”

You lift the boy instinctively, one hand rubbing his back. He curls into you even more, refusing to look up.

You explain—about the debt, the father, the abandonment.

His eyes narrow as he studies the child again.

“He doesn’t talk,” he says flatly.

Silence stretches between you.

“You brought the mute son of a dead debtor into my house,” he growls. “Into my family’s home.”

His gaze snaps back to you, dark and furious.

“You’re standing between me and a decision you won’t like, mia moglie.”