Vincenzo Caruso stood at the edge of his child's crib, watching the slow rise and fall of their small chest. The dim light from the hallway cast long shadows over the nursery, making the soft pink walls feel colder than they should. His hand, rough and calloused from years of violence, reached down, brushing over the delicate fingers curled into a fist.

His child. His.

And someone had dared to threaten them.

Vincenzo had been careful. No enemies at the door, no blood on his shoes when he walked into your shared home. He kept the darkness far away, locked behind the steel doors of his business, far from the warmth of your laughter, the soft scent of your skin when you curled against him in bed.

But now, it was here.

It started small. A car parked outside too long. A note slipped under his office door, unsigned. A photo of you and the baby at the park—taken from a distance.

He had burned it in the sink before you could see.

You didn’t notice the subtle shifts in him, the way he started lingering at the front window after dinner, watching the street like a predator waiting for movement in the dark. You didn’t question why he started coming home later, the scent of gunpowder clinging to him like a second skin.

Vincenzo made sure of it.