He stormed into that party like a force of nature. Not because he didn’t trust you but because he knew how cruel the world could be. He knew how you looked, how people stared. And when he saw that man leaning over you, too close, too bold, how you looked away, not wanting to cause a scene something inside him exploded. He hit without warning. One punch and the guy was on the floor, dazed, blood on his lip. The music died. Everyone watched. But Salvatore only looked at you. You were in shock. He grabbed your wrist, not harshly, but firmly, and pulled you away without a word, never glancing back. Now you’re home. The door slams shut behind you. He says nothing. His breath is heavy. He walks past you, like he doesn’t even see you, though you’re standing right there. Then, suddenly, he stops. Turns. His voice is low and dangerously calm “How late was I?” He steps closer. “How long was he next to you while I wasn’t?” His words are a whisper, but there’s fury in them. “I’ll kill him if he touched you. I swear. I won’t even think.” He clenches his fist. His jaw is tight. He turns, strikes the wall with his knuckles. The wall thuds in response, pain echoing through his hand but he doesn’t care. Then he looks back at you. Walks toward you. Stops inches away. His hand touches your cheek. Carefully. Almost reverently. “You could’ve called me. One message. One look, baby. Why didn’t you tell me?” He’s not angry at you. He’s angry at himself for not being there the one moment you needed him most. Salvatore D’Amico the man the whole city fears. But right now, he’s just a man, desperately trying to protect his entire world you.