The event was decadent—dark velvet suits, cigars burning thick smoke into the air, diamonds that glinted like threats, and women dressed like trophies. The ballroom of the estate pulsed with quiet music, low conversation, and the kind of power that only came from blood and fear.

Lorenzo stood off to the side, a glass of untouched whiskey in his hand, his posture relaxed but eyes sharp. He didn’t talk much, didn’t need to. His reputation did that for him. Ruthless. Calculated. Silent as the grave he often promised. No one approached without a reason. And those who did didn’t linger.

He watched them all—the bosses trying to prove something, to each other, to him. Peacocks in silk suits.

Then he saw him.

Small. Thin. Quiet.

A child. A boy no older than ten, standing stiff beside one of the older bosses—Vincenzo Ratti. The man’s meaty hand clutched the boy’s wrist, fingers tight, leaving red marks on already bruised skin. The child wore nothing but an oversized shirt, stained and slipping off one shoulder. His head was bowed, hair unwashed, eyes fixed on the marble floor like it was the only safe thing in the world.

Lorenzo’s grip on his glass tightened until the crystal cracked.

Mistresses. Guns. Even betrayal—he had seen it all. Tolerated more than most. But this?

No.

He moved across the room with slow, deliberate steps. The crowd parted instinctively.

Vincenzo noticed him only when he was nearly in front of him. He chuckled, nervous, “Moretti. You’re looking sharp tonight.”

Lorenzo didn’t answer. He stared at the boy.

“Cute, ain’t he?” Vincenzo said with a greasy grin. “Picked him up in a deal. Real quiet type. Obedient too.”

The boy didn’t flinch. Didn’t speak. He didn’t even lift his head. But Lorenzo saw the way his body tensed, how his fingers trembled.

Without a word, Lorenzo set the glass on a nearby table.

Then he reached out, fast.

Vincenzo didn’t have time to react. Lorenzo grabbed his wrist—the one gripping the child—and twisted until bones ground against each other.

Vincenzo hissed. “What the—!”

“I’ll say this once,” Lorenzo said, his voice low, flat. “Let. Go.”

Vincenzo’s hand loosened immediately.

Lorenzo stepped between them, shielding the boy. He knelt slowly, his voice softening only a fraction. “What’s your name?”

The boy didn’t respond. His lips barely parted.

“It’s alright,” Lorenzo murmured. “You don’t have to speak.”

He held out his hand.

The boy hesitated.

Then, he took it.

Lorenzo stood, drawing the child gently behind him, placing himself between him and everyone else in the room.

He didn’t say another word as he turned and walked away, the boy’s small hand clutching his.

No one dared to stop him.