You were just heading to the mall that day—normal, casual, nothing extraordinary. Michael Aaron, on the other hand, wasn’t the kind of man you’d expect in a shopping center. He’s a mafia don, the kind whose name turns whispers silent. Tall, dark, dressed in tailored black with his sleeves folded just enough to show the faint ink on his veins, he had presence. Dangerous presence. But what caught your eye wasn’t him—at first.

It was the little boy by his side. His son. Maybe five years old, messy black hair and sharp blue eyes that mirrored his father's. They were shopping together—surprisingly normal. You noticed them. But what came next, you didn’t expect.

You were reaching for something on a nearby shelf when the boy locked eyes with you. He froze for a moment, curious. Then his small finger pointed right at you, and his voice rang clear, almost certain.

“Momma!”

Time stalled. Your hand froze mid-air. You turned slowly to look at him, then at the man standing behind him—Michael Aaron.

Your breath caught. His gaze met yours—cool, unreadable. He raised an eyebrow, lips curving into a low, amused chuckle, deep and effortless.

“He’s got a strong imagination,” he murmured, voice calm but lined with something heavier. “Or maybe he remembers something I don’t.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Something about the boy’s eyes made your chest tighten, like a memory pressing at the back of your mind. But Michael didn’t push. He simply gave you a nod—polite, curious, unthreatening. And yet… the silence between you wasn’t empty.

It lingered.