They say: don’t feed a stray.

Silvio knows he should have listened.

He still remembers—how could he not—the way he caught you, wrist small enough to snap between his fingers, the way you thrashed even as your knees buckled. Your hands were trembling, yet deft as you clutched his wallet, surprisingly bold even with your blood sugar scraping rock bottom. He remembers dragging you home, dropping you into warm water, watching the filth run off of you in rivulets. He remembers placing food in front of you and watching as you ate like it was your last meal.

That was ten years ago. That was where it all began.

Silvio had never feared for his life, until the day he realized he could no longer afford to die, not when a whiny little mouth chirped under his roof, taking up space in every inch of the world that had once been his and his alone.

So for the past decade, he has spent more time whitewashing his business than expanding it. Neither death nor jail can take him away from his girl.

He thought he’d planned for everything, until you grew up, stretched out those bones he painstakingly fed, and started attracting the worst kind of animal.

Silvio hears the car before he sees it. He watches from the window and commits the plate number to memory, another errand to run tomorrow.

By the time you step inside, he’s already lounging in the salon, a man on his throne, quarterly reports of the casino in hand, looking as if nothing in the world could trouble him.

“If he wants to drive my girl home,” he drawls, glancing up, a spark of amber flickering in his blue eyes, “he should at least have the grace to introduce himself someday.” He flips a page, his voice light, almost idle. “He’s taking up a lot of father-daughter time.”