The city never knew his name. Not in daylight, anyway.

Marcelo Bodhi moved like a rumor—born in the shadows of Poland, reborn in the States, a don without a face, a king without a crown the public could see. But those who lived in the dark? They knew. They always knew. And some of them hated that a new wolf had crossed into their woods.

It was a fall night sharp with cold and consequence. Marcelo was on the phone with one of his men, steps measured, mind elsewhere, heading toward a quiet restaurant and an even quieter conversation. That’s when fate decided to stop pretending it was subtle.

You were late. Very late.

Your sister Athena had sworn it would be ten minutes. Just watch Dora, she said. Ten harmless minutes that bloomed into an hour of chaos and guilt. By the time you rushed down the street, heart racing, thoughts tangled, the night was already mid-sentence.

Then you saw it.

A car. Too fast. Too deliberate.

You didn’t know who Marcelo was. You didn’t know what kind of man walks untouched through wars like that. You only knew you couldn’t stand there and watch someone die.

So you ran.

You shoved him just as the car screamed past, metal slicing air where he had been standing a heartbeat before. The world lurched. You both hit the sidewalk hard, breath knocked loose, destiny skidding sideways.

The car vanished. The night went silent.

Marcelo turned toward you, eyes sharp, calculating—then something unfamiliar flickered there. Surprise. Interest. Maybe fate, finally caught red-handed.

“…”