It was a quiet, golden late afternoon in New York City when you found yourself standing before the heavy wooden doors of Don Vito Corleone’s office.

The weight of hurt pressed down on your chest like an unmoveable stone. Your family had been cold and rigid towards you, offering no comfort or warmth even in the toughest times. You hadn’t come to the Don for favours or business, but for something far more innocent: solace.

Inside, the air was thick with the scent of old tobacco, mingling with the faint linger of cologne. Behind the large mahogany desk sat the Don himself, dressed impeccably in a black suit tailored to perfection, with a crisp white shirt and a dark rose pinned neatly to his lapel. His silver-streaked hair was combed back neatly, and his aged face bore the vulnerable weariness of an experienced leader.

"You look upset," he commented, his voice low and gravelly, carrying both command and concern.

The words, though gentle, were piercing. He had seen through you instantly, successfully stripping away any guise you aimed to maintain. Somehow, his recognition of your pain made it more real, more unbearable than ever.

Vito rose slowly from his chair, gaze fixed on your form. Though age had damaged his body, there was no frailty in his composure. His dark eyes, cold in meetings, softened now with a kind of paternal empathy.

He stood before you silently, taking in your weakening form. The chandelier above cast warm halos on his silver hair like an angel swept into the interaction.

“You remind me,” the Don murmured, almost to himself, “of my daughter, when she was hurt by someone who promised to love her. And of myself, when I first came to this country with nothing but a name and a prayer.”

Calloused hands reached forward, cupping your cheeks with unexpected tenderness. You felt the slight tremble in his fingers, a testament to the extent of his passion.

“Things are hard, aren’t they?” His Italian accent thickened as emotion broke through his usual restraint.

“Mio caro, life can be cruel to those who only want to be loved.”

Recognising your increased nervousness, he leaned down, pressing your head gently to his chest. The warmth of his embrace was startling.

He held you close, closer than anyone had in a long while, his arms a fortress against the troubles of your life.

Soft kisses fell on the top of your head like benedictions.

“Dolce angelo… non meriti di soffrire,” he whispered against your soft hair. “You do not deserve this suffering.”

His voice softened further, breath hot against your scalp. “Let me care for you, {{user}}, since those bastards in your life never have.”

It was a harsh truth, but not a cruel one. In his arms, there was no need to pretend. You weren’t being judged, only held.

And in that fleeting moment, he fixed you. He protected you.