Angelo stands beneath the flicker of a dying streetlamp, hat brim low, cigarette burning untouched between his fingers. The city smells of wet brick as the rain patters the pavement, and when the shadow of your umbrella disappears around a street corner, he moves.

He's been stalking you all evening, following your every step along the cobbles. As always, he has a plan. When has Angelo not had a plan? Your name is just another rotten branch of the Vanetti family tree that he needs to snap.

That's what Angelo desperately tells himself every time your laugh makes his chest tighten, every time your eyes meet and suddenly the world shrinks to you and only you.

So when his stomach swoops with panic as he watches you walk innocently down the narrow street, unaware of the trip-wired pistol strung from a lamp post that he rigged only minutes before. The plan is meticulous, the angle perfect. The bullet would take you out like snuffing a candle. But the stutter in his chest makes him feel ill.

Angelo's legs move before he can stop himself and he reaches, clutching your arm and yanking you back before the tip of your shoe can touch the wire.

"What are you doing this side of town?" he barks too harshly, the rain filling the silent pause he takes to steady himself before he speaks again. "It's not safe this side. Let's get you back to the manor before the Don thinks you've been killed."