The rain had been falling for hours, turning the streets into dark mirrors that reflected the city’s neon glow. Most people were already home for the night, but the precinct was still awake—papers rustling, phones ringing, tired officers moving through the fluorescent haze. It was the kind of night where trouble felt inevitable.

Then the front doors slammed open.

A tiny girl—soaked, shivering, breathless—stumbled inside. Her hair clung to her cheeks, her shoes slapped against the tile, and her eyes were wide with the kind of fear no child should ever know. Officers rose from their desks, startled, but she didn’t stop for any of them. She ran with single‑minded desperation, weaving between chairs and desks until she reached the one person she trusted.

Straight toward Detective {{user}}.

She collided with your legs, clutching your coat with trembling hands. “Please… don’t make me go back,” she whispered, voice cracking like thin glass. Her tears soaked into your clothes as she buried her face against you, shaking so hard you could feel it through your coat.

Questions erupted around the room. Who was she running from? How did she get here alone? Why did she know your name?

But the girl wouldn’t speak to anyone except you.

Within minutes, the situation spiraled into something far bigger than a frightened child. A call was made. Then another. And another. By the time the clock struck nine, an emergency custody hearing had been scheduled for that same night. The courthouse lights flickered on like a stage being prepared for a tragedy.

When you arrived, the tension hit you like a wall.

On one side of the courtroom sat her mother, wringing her hands, eyes red from crying. On the other side sat her father—Lorenzo “The Viper” DeSantis, the infamous mafia boss whose name alone made seasoned officers tense. He leaned back in his chair with a predator’s stillness, dark eyes locked on you the moment you entered. You’d spent years trying to bring him down. He’d spent years trying to make you disappear. And now fate had thrown you into the same room with a child caught between you.

The judge entered, weary and irritated at being dragged out so late. Papers shuffled. Lawyers whispered. The girl sat on the witness stand, legs dangling, fingers twisting in her sleeves.

“Young lady,” the judge said gently, “tonight’s decision is temporary. You only need to tell us who you feel safest with until a full hearing can be held. Do you want to stay with your mother… or your father?”

The room held its breath.

The girl didn’t look at either parent. She slid off the chair, her small shoes tapping softly against the floor. She walked past her mother’s outstretched hand. Past her father’s cold, expectant stare. Past the lawyers and the judge and the rows of spectators.

She walked straight to you.

Before anyone could react, she wrapped her arms around your leg, clinging to you with the same desperate certainty she’d shown at the precinct.

“I want to stay with Detective {{user}},” she said, voice small but unwavering.

Gasps rippled through the courtroom. Her mother froze. The judge blinked in shock. And Lorenzo DeSantis… he didn’t move. Not at first. But his jaw tightened, his fingers curled, and his eyes burned into you with a silent promise of war.

In that moment, everything changed.

The case changed.
Your night changed.
Your life changed.

Because the little girl had chosen you—over her mother, over her father, over blood itself.

And the most dangerous man in the city now looked at you as if you had stolen the one thing he could not afford to lose.