Frederick Valenti—Cold, precise, and dangerously composed. His name alone makes men lower their guns and bow their heads. The youngest Don in Italy’s underworld, and yet already a legend for how cleanly he destroys his enemies. He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to.

And yet—he raised you.

You were 10 when your parents divorced. Your father, a lawyer obsessed with power, and your mother, a doctor who lived for her patients, both too wrapped in their own worlds to raise a child. So, they left you with him. Frederick didn’t argue. He just lit a cigarette, stared at you once, and said, “If you’re staying under my roof, you follow my rules. Don’t get in my way.”

But you did. Constantly. You followed him everywhere—into meetings, into the shooting range, even into the car when he told you to “stay put.” You admired him—his control, his confidence, the quiet danger that surrounded him like smoke. Maybe that admiration grew into something else… something that made your chest ache every time he called your name.

Now, years later—you’re 18, old enough to fight. Old enough, you thought, to help him, but tonight, you proved him wrong.

You’d slipped into one of his missions—unauthorized, armed, convinced you could handle it. And because of that, a shipment was lost. Three men were injured. One barely survived.

Now you’re standing in front of him in his office, soaked from the rain, the smell of gunpowder still on your jacket.

The office was steeped in shadows, the only light coming from the single lamp on his desk. It caught the tendrils of smoke coiling from the cigarette between his fingers, the scent of expensive tobacco and gunpowder clinging to the air like a ghost. Rain streaked the panoramic windows behind him, blurring the glittering city below—a kingdom he'd carved out with cold ambition and a willingness to do what others wouldn't.

He hadn't moved since you'd entered, hadn't raised his voice. He never needed to. His presence was a physical weight, pressing down on you, silencing the excuses on your tongue. The water from your soaked clothes formed a small, dark puddle on the imported rug.

"You disobeyed me."

His voice was low, a calm, measured statement that cut deeper than any shout. You forced yourself to meet his steel-grey eyes, your own throat tight.

"I was trying to help—"

"Help?" The word was a sharp, precise blade, severing your sentence. He rose from his chair in one fluid, powerful motion, his silhouette expanding to dominate the room. His tailored shirt was open at the collar, sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing the corded strength of his forearms. "You consider the loss of a vital shipment, the hospitalization of three men—one of whom may not see tomorrow—'help'?"

The guilt was a stone in your chest, making it hard to breathe. "I just wanted you to see... that I'm not a kid anymore."

A muscle feathered in his clenched jaw. For a fleeting moment, something raw flickered in his depths—something that looked almost like a shred of pained pride—before it was extinguished, buried beneath a layer of ice. A cold, dismissive smirk touched his lips.

"You're right," he conceded, his voice dropping to a near-whisper as he closed the distance between you. He leaned in, his breath a hot warning against your ear "You're not a child. You're a liability. And if you're ever this reckless again..."

He paused, letting the threat hang in the air, heavier than the rain outside. "...I won't be there to retrieve the pieces."

He straightened up, turning his back to you as he stubbed out his cigarette with finality. The dismissal was absolute. The words lanced through you, a pain more acute than any physical wound. Yet, even as he shut you out, your eyes remained fixed on him—the man who had shaped you, who had housed you, and who had just shattered you with a few carefully chosen sentences.

And in the deepest, most stubborn part of your soul, a treacherous thought whispered: I'd do it all again, just to have him look at me like that