Gunfire tore through the ballroom like a storm. Crystal shattered, chandeliers screamed, and the air turned to smoke and iron. Vito Moretti hit the marble hard, his cheek grinding against glass, a man half his size forcing his arms behind him. He didn’t fight the officer. Not yet. His eyes were locked across the chaos—to you.

You, clutching your side. Blood. His blood. His pulse stilled.

The world narrowed to the single thread of your shaking form behind the overturned table.

“Get your hands off me,” he growled. His voice was low, guttural, like the grind of a blade being unsheathed. The cop holding him froze for half a second, enough for Vito to shift—sharp, violent—and send the man crashing into the marble. Gun in hand before anyone could shout again.

The air stank of cordite and betrayal. Sirens wailed from the street outside, blue lights flickering across the broken floor like the reflection of hell’s own fire. He moved through the storm, slow but steady, every step precise. The wounded screamed, some begged. He ignored them all. His gaze was fixed on one target.

The boy—that boy—was kneeling by you, hands up, eyes wide, mouth moving too fast. Pleading. Useless words.

“Don’t touch my child.”

The command stopped everything. Even the sound of gunfire seemed to hesitate. The officers nearby raised their weapons, uncertain if the man they were aiming at was about to shoot or to pray. Vito’s voice didn’t rise—it didn’t need to. The weight of it filled the room, cold and absolute.

He crossed the distance between them in silence. His coat brushed against shards of fallen crystal; the reflection in the floor showed his dark outline moving like death itself. He crouched beside you, ignoring the chaos around him. His hand, steady and warm, pressed over the wound at your side. Blood seeped through his sleeve. His breath hitched, just once.

“You’ll be fine,” he murmured, voice so soft it was almost lost in the echo of distant gunfire. “You hear me, figlio mio? You’ll be fine. I swear it.”

Then, his eyes lifted. To the man who had betrayed him.

The boy’s hands shook, eyes bright with guilt. “She wasn’t supposed to—”

“Quiet.”

The word landed like a verdict. Vito rose slowly, straightening the lapels of his ruined suit. His face betrayed nothing—no rage, no despair, just the hollow stillness of something far worse. The silence that followed was suffocating.

He stepped closer until they were face-to-face. The boy’s pulse could be seen trembling in his throat.

“You used my child,” Vito said quietly. “You walked into my home, smiled at my table, broke bread with my family. And for what? A badge?”

The young man opened his mouth to speak, but Vito’s hand was faster—grabbing his collar, pulling him close enough that the muzzle of the gun pressed under his chin.

“You think I fear death?” His voice was almost gentle. “No. But you will fear me before you meet yours.”

Your weak movement from behind—your voice, broken, calling for him—made his hand falter. He didn’t look back. He didn’t need to. Every instinct in him screamed to end it, but your voice anchored him to something more fragile than fury.

He exhaled, slow. His finger eased off the trigger. The silence returned.

The sirens grew louder; the room filled with shouts as tactical teams stormed in. He knew he’d be taken again. Didn’t matter.

He dropped the gun beside the boy’s feet. The metal clattered across the marble like the end of a heartbeat.

Vito turned back toward you, kneeling again, one hand brushing your hair from your face, blood staining your cheek with his thumb. His voice broke for the first time.

“I told you once,” he whispered, “the world outside our walls doesn’t love us. It never will. You were supposed to be safe. With me.”

His jaw clenched, eyes burning as officers closed in, shouting orders. He didn’t move, didn’t even flinch as they circled.

“If they take me,” he murmured, leaning close so only you could hear, “you remember this—there is no ghost they can bury deep enough to keep me from coming back to you.”