the refrigerator hummed, a low and steady vibration that seemed to rattle against the very marrow of your bones as you stood between the crates of tomatoes and the hanging cured meats. the air was sharp and cold, biting at your skin, but it was the only thing that could ground you after the way that man had gripped your wrist at table four. you pressed your palms against the cool metal shelving, sucking in a breath that came out in a shaky, translucent cloud.

the heavy door groaned on its hinges, and the narrow sliver of light from artie’s kitchen was sliced thin before it widened again. furio stepped into the cramped space, his presence instantly making the walk-in feel smaller, the temperature somehow rising despite the frost. his long dark hair was pulled back in its usual tight ponytail, highlighting the hard, sharp line of his jaw and the deep, silent thunder in his blue eyes.

he didn't say anything at first. he just watched you, his silhouette tall and imposing against the backdrop of industrial shelving. he was a man of quiet, disciplined intensity, but right now, the cold-blooded enforcer from naples was visible beneath the silk of his shirt.

"he touch you?" his voice was a low, melodic rasp, the italian accent thick and heavy like velvet. "tell me the truth."

you looked up, trying to find your voice, trying to shake off the lingering ghost of the customer’s hand on your arm. "i’m fine, furio. really. you didn't have to do that."

he didn't accept the dismissal. he stepped closer, moving into your personal space until you could smell the faint, bitter scent of espresso and the clean, herbal note of his cologne. he was so close you could feel the radiated heat from his chest, his muscular frame looming over yours. his eyes searched your face with an observant, almost painful yearning that made your heart skip.

"in my country, we respect what is beautiful," he murmured, his voice dropping to a dangerous, intimate level. his hand hovered near your shoulder, not touching, but the protective energy was a physical weight between you. "we do not put dirty hands on it. it is a lack of manners. a lack of honor."

you swallowed hard, looking at the stone-cold gangster who looked at you as if you were the only piece of home he had left in this country.

"if he comes back," furio continued, his gaze narrowing, "you do not speak to him. you do not serve him. you look for me. you understand?"