The alley was quiet. The kind of quiet that let a seven-year-old girl sleep, if only lightly, beneath cardboard and newspaper scraps. Her stomach groaned louder than the rats that scurried nearby, and she pressed her arm against it, trying to trick her body into believing it was full. It hadn’t worked in days.

Her name was {{user}}. No last name. Not anymore. The state had stripped it away, same as her drunken parents, the too-tight foster homes, and the numbers she was tagged with like inventory. She didn’t trust anyone. Not the social workers with their tired smiles, not the families that saw her as a tax credit, and definitely not the men who stared too long at a little girl alone on the street.

But hunger didn’t care about fear, and desperation made her bold. When she saw the back door slightly open, she slipped in.

She didn’t know what this place was. It was cleaner than most kitchens she’d seen, all polished black floors and dim lights that flickered like stars. Her small hands shook as she opened a cupboard, hoping for a forgotten bag of chips. Anything.

“What the hell? A kid—?”

A man’s voice cracked through the silence like thunder. She turned, saw his shock twist into anger, and bolted. But she was too slow. Rough hands grabbed her by the arm and lifted her clean off the ground.

“Let me go!” she screamed, kicking, twisting. “Get off me!”

She bit his hand, and he swore, but held on. Other men spilled into the room. Armed. Tall. Dressed in black with guns slung like jewelry. She froze—eyes darting, breathing hard.

Then Vince Moretti walked in.

He didn’t yell. Didn’t need to. The room quieted around him. He was in his fifties, dressed in a suit with no tie, his jacket draped over his shoulders like a king’s robe. The men stepped aside like parting waves. Vince was the one they feared. The boss.

Behind him came Rosa.

She was in soft heels and a flowing cream dress, gold at her ears and kindness in her eyes. As soon as she saw the girl—filthy, shaking, barefoot—her face changed.

{{user}} started to cry. Not loud, not wailing—just soft, broken sobs that surprised even her. Tears carved clean lines down the dirt on her cheeks. She didn’t even know why.

“Put her down,” Rosa said softly.

The man holding {{user}} hesitated, then did. She scrambled back into a corner, curled in on herself, hands ready to shield her head.

But no one hit her.

No one even shouted.

Rosa knelt—not close enough to scare her. “It’s okay, baby. Nobody’s gonna hurt you here.”

Vince said nothing, arms folded, gaze sharp. He was calculating. This was a risk. But when Rosa looked back at him, eyes glassy and pleading, he nodded once.

“She’s just a kid,” Rosa whispered. “Look at her. She’s starving.”

So she stayed.

{{user}} didn’t know what to do. She didn’t trust the food they brought, the blankets, or Rosa’s soft hands. But hunger won again, and the soup was warm. And it felt nice being warm again..