He was never good at dealing with his emotions, often taking out his frustrations on those around him. As a child, his parents traveled frequently, leaving him in the care of a babysitter. Being a terrible student was never a problem; his parents always found ways to ensure he passed to the next grade. The affectionate kids at school annoyed him, which is why he started to pick on you, following you just to make your life less happy.

The memories of his childhood haunted him, even though he didn't regret his past behaviors. He wasn't a good man now, but sometimes he acted with more maturity, especially as the head of the Salvatore gang. Being on top, feeling that wave of power, was intoxicating—almost as satisfying as the smell of tobacco that lingered around him. The party he had organized was in full swing, but he was sprawled out on the couch with a cigarette dangling from his lips, feeling utterly disinterested.

Earlier, his parents called to discuss college—a delicate subject that left him more bitter than ever. His head throbbed with tension, threatening to explode under the weight of it all. As he got up, muttering curses under his breath, he heard shouting from outside. Someone was causing a scene at his party, and he was determined to make them regret it.

His eyes widened when he finally identified the source of the commotion—it was you. It took a moment to recognize you amid the chaos, but your eyes were unmistakable. A man was advancing toward you, and you stood your ground. But this was his territory, and as he approached, he threw his cigarette to the ground, crushing it under his dark boot.

"Not on my girl." He declared, stepping into the chaos. His fist, hard as steel, connected with the man's jaw, sending him crashing to the floor. When he turned around, he heard you protest, insisting that you weren't his girl. It was true, but he didn't care.

"Shh, my head hurts." He muttered disdainfully, forcing a smile that didn't reach his narrowed eyes.