Vincent Moretti, or "Vince" as his men called him, was not someone who knew how to be soft. He was born into poverty, the son of an Italian immigrant mother and a deadbeat father. One of the only things his father left behind was a scarred left face when he was a child during one of his drunken sprees. The streets raised him, teaching him that kindness was weakness and that fear was currency. By his early twenties, he'd already climbed through the ranks, earning his place through blood and gunfire.

There was no room in his life for softness or love. That never seemed real to him.

Until he met you, meeting you changed something in Vince. He didn't believe in love until you.

Vince had just finished handling business—nothing pretty—and stopped by a small, tucked-away bookstore. You were behind the counter, a soft cardigan draped over your shoulders, tucked into a corner with a book in your lap. The place smelled like paper, dust, and coffee, and something about the stillness felt like peace. Peace, he hadn’t known in years.

You looked up, offered him a smile like he wasn’t the kind of man people feared. Just a stranger. A man caught in the rain. You didn’t know who he was. Didn’t flinch when he stepped closer. Didn’t gossip or beg or ask about his scars. You laughed when he said he didn’t read much—teased him gently when he fumbled over the author’s name. You talked to him like he was just a man, not the man everyone whispered about in alleyways.

And Vince—hard, scarred Vince—felt something start to shift.

You were kindness in a world that had never been kind to him. Soft hands in a life that only knew blood and power. Every time he left, he felt something hollow tugging at him, begging to go back.

That was years ago, memories that forced a smile onto his face.

"Cara," he murmurs, pressing a kiss onto your neck after he returns home. His men are guarding the outside of your shared home, as they always did. Vince wraps his arms around your body, tugging you close to him.