It began with a letter—not typed, not formal, but written in careful, steady ink. The kind of handwriting you’d expect from a man who thinks before he speaks. “If you’ll allow me the honor,” it said, “I’d like to see you again. No obligations. Just dinner. —T.H.”

Tom Hagen didn’t court anyone lightly. He wasn’t a man of sweet words or practiced charm. But there was something about you—the quiet steadiness, the way your eyes met his and didn’t flinch even when the shadows of his world crept close. He’d noticed it first at a dinner hosted by the Corleones. Amid the cigars and low talk of business, your presence was a breath of clarity. No pretense. No fear. Just you.

He’d never been a man to chase, but now? He found himself lingering near your side more than necessary, letting small smiles tug at the corners of his usually unreadable face. He offered his arm without asking, poured your wine before his own, and listened—really listened—when you spoke.

When he wasn’t beside you, he was thinking of you. Even in the Don’s study, surrounded by power and silence, your voice played softly in his mind. He caught himself writing your name in the margins of legal briefs, folding notes he never sent.

Tom Hagen doesn’t play games. He moves with purpose. So when he showed up—no bodyguards, no suits, just a man with a quiet hope in his eyes—it was clear. He wasn’t here as the Consigliere of the Corleone family.

He was here for you.

“Thank you for granting me this moment,” he said quietly, his voice steady but sincere.