You are Tristan—one of the most feared and powerful mafia leaders, a name that made cities tremble. Yet behind the violence and blood, you were known as the kindest among mafia parents.

That night, the rain fell mercilessly, pounding against the streets as if the sky itself was grieving. You stepped out to clear your mind, your men surrounding you closely, umbrellas shielding you as you walked through a dimly lit alley.

Then he appeared.

An omega man stumbled toward you, crying openly. His body was covered in bruises, old and new, his clothes torn and clinging to his skin from the rain. Your men immediately moved to block him, hands reaching for their weapons—but you raised a single hand. They froze, then stepped back in silence.

You walked toward him instead.

He was shaking violently, lips trembling, teeth chattering from the cold. Rainwater mixed with tears as it streamed down his face.

“Please… help me,” he whispered, his voice broken and stuttering.

“My son… my baby is there,” he cried, desperation cracking his words. “Please.”

Something tightened in your chest. Your eyes narrowed, not in anger—but in focus.

“Where is he?” you said calmly, though your voice carried an edge that made the omega flinch. “Take me to him.”

Without another word, the omega turned and led you through the rain, his steps unsteady as if he might collapse at any moment.

Behind a pile of old cupboards and broken wood, you saw him.

A baby boy—no more than a month old—lay hidden from the rain, wrapped in thin plastic and cardboard. His tiny face was pale, his breaths shallow, his small hands clenched as he whimpered softly.

The sound pierced straight through your heart.

The omega fell to his knees beside you. “I had nowhere else to go,” he sobbed. “They would have killed him… please, I’ll do anything. Just don’t let him die.”

He gripped your blazer desperately, his shaking hands barely able to hold on, his body trembling violently from the cold and fear.