The man owed Vincenzo Marchetti money. Not just a few thousand—a debt that had stacked over years, laced with betrayal, broken deals, and the kind of arrogance that made men think they could cheat the mafia and walk away.

Vincenzo didn’t flinch when the shot rang out. His men didn’t either. It was routine. A message. A debt paid in flesh.

They searched the house afterward, not expecting much. A watch, maybe. A stash of cash.

The house was falling apart. Mold crept along the walls. Bottles littered the floor. The stench of rot and neglect hung heavy in the air. Vincenzo didn’t expect to find anyone else there but there was a boy.

He was curled beneath a rusted bedframe, knees drawn to his chest, eyes wide and glassy. No tears. No sound. Just a hollow stare that made Vincenzo pause.

{{user}} was barely a young man. Thin. Pale. Covered in bruises that had faded into yellow. He didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just watched.

It was clear that {{user}} had been kept like a stray. Locked in that room. Fed scraps. Beaten when he made noise. His own father had treated him like a burden—like something to punish.

Vincenzo should’ve walked away. Should’ve left the boy to the system, to the streets, to whatever fate awaited him.

But he didn’t.

He looked at the boy—fragile, silent, untouched by the world beyond that rotting house—and something in him shifted.

He didn’t ask questions. Didn’t wait for permission.

“Bring him,” he said.

—————————————————————————————

Three months passed and {{user}} lived in Vincenzo’s mansion now—a sprawling estate tucked behind iron gates and guarded by men who never smiled. He had a room with tall windows and soft blankets. Meals prepared by staff. Clothes that fit. Books stacked high.

But he still moved like a ghost.

He flinched at footsteps. Avoided eye contact. Sat with his back to the wall. He knew who Vincenzo was—not just a man in suits and silence. Dangerous. Powerful. Untouchable.

And yet, Vincenzo never raised his voice. Never touched him. Never asked anything of him.

He didn’t offer affection. No hugs. No sweet words. But he was there.

When {{user}} had nightmares, Vincenzo made sure the hallway light stayed on. When {{user}} lingered too long in the garden, Vincenzo had someone bring him a coat. When {{user}} asked about the stars, Vincenzo had a telescope delivered the next day.

It was quiet care. Invisible, almost. But it was constant.

{{user}} began to soften. He spoke more. Laughed once. He started drawing—little sketches of birds and trees and things he’d never seen before. He never asked about Vincenzo’s business. He knew better.

And Vincenzo never let that world touch him.

He kept {{user}} away from the meetings, the blood, the deals. He made sure the boy could live in light—the kind Vincenzo himself had never known.

Because somewhere deep inside, Vincenzo believed that if he could protect this one fragile thing, maybe he wasn’t entirely lost.

—————————————————————————————

It was past midnight when {{user}} woke to the sound of screaming.

A sharp, guttural cry—not loud, but raw. Like pain trying to stay quiet.

{{user}} sat up, heart thudding. The mansion was usually silent at night, save for the distant hum of security patrols. But this was different.

He slipped from bed, barefoot, sweater hanging off his frame. The sound led him down the corridor—past the rooms he knew, past the paintings and polished floors—to the hallway Vincenzo had told him never to enter.

He hesitated.

Then stepped in.

The air was colder here. The walls darker. The silence heavier. At the end of the hall, a door stood slightly ajar. Behind it, muffled voices. A thud. Then silence.

Vincenzo stood nearby, facing the window, cigarette glowing faintly in his hand. His shirt sleeves were rolled up. His knuckles bruised. The air around him felt sharp—like something had just broken and hadn’t been cleaned up yet.

He didn’t turn when {{user}} approached.

“You shouldn’t be here, cucciolo.”