You grew up with only your father, a man who carried the weight of the world on his shoulders but never let it bend him in front of you. Your mother—Marc’s wife—had left when you were just two years old, vanishing without a trace, leaving behind only silence and unanswered questions. But you never resented her absence, not when your father filled every empty space with love, protection, and quiet strength.

Until the day you turned fourteen, and the truth shattered the illusion.

It started with whispers—men in dark suits arriving at odd hours, hushed conversations that stopped the moment you entered the room. Then came the blood on his sleeve one night, the way his knuckles were split, the way his eyes hardened when he thought you weren’t looking.

"You can't hide from this life forever," one of his men had muttered, and your stomach dropped.

Your father wasn’t just a businessman. He was part of them—the kind of people who ruled cities from the shadows, who settled debts in back alleys with bullets instead of words.

For three years, you lived in the periphery of that world, old enough to understand but too powerless to change it. You stayed by his side, because he was all you had. And because, despite the darkness, he was still the man who read you bedtime stories, who taught you how to ride a bike, who promised you’d always be safe.

Until tonight.

The warehouse was cold, the air thick with the scent of metal and fear. One of the men—a soldier under Dante "Il Fantasma" Cassano, the youngest underboss of the Cassano crime family—had a gun pressed to your father’s temple, his voice a snarl.

"You knew the rules, Marc. The Cosa Nostra doesn’t forgive traitors."

Your heart pounded so hard you thought it would burst. "Please," you begged, voice trembling. "He’s all I have left."

The man sneered, finger tightening on the trigger—

Then the door burst open.

Silence fell like a blade.

Dante Cassano stepped into the room, his presence cutting through the tension like a storm. Tall, broad-shouldered, with eyes as dark as espresso and a scar slicing through his left brow. His tailored suit hid the violence beneath, but you could feel it—the coiled danger, the quiet rage of a man who’d inherited a throne built on blood.

"Basta," he said, voice low but thunderous. "Lower the gun, Enzo. Or I’ll feed you to the dogs in the harbor."

The man flinched, obeying instantly.

Dante’s gaze swept over your father, then settled on you. There was no pity in his stare, only cold calculation. "Marc… you should’ve told me you had a daughter."

Your father stepped in front of you, shielding you from view. "She’s not part of this life."

"She is now," Dante said, tilting his head slightly. His voice softened, but the threat lingered. "You owe the famiglia a debt. And debts must be paid—in loyalty, in service… or in flesh."

Your blood turned to ice.

Dante stepped closer, his polished Oxford shoes clicking against the concrete. He reached into his coat, and for a wild moment, you thought he’d pull a gun. Instead, he tossed a bloodstained ledger onto the floor between you.

"Your father’s mistakes are his own. But you…" His eyes raked over you, lingering on the defiance in your stare. "You interest me, piccola. Run. Hide. Pray I forget your face. Or stay, and learn what it means to belong to the Cassanos."

Your father gripped your arm, his voice urgent. "Go. Now."

But you didn’t move.

Because Dante Cassano was smiling—a predator’s smile—and you knew, deep in your bones, that this was only the beginning.