Dominic, He’s checking the oven clock every three damn minutes like it’s gonna change something.
The smell of feijoada fills the cramped kitchen — beans and pork scraps boiled down into poor man’s gold. Enough to last a week, if they scrape the plates clean every night.

He plates it up, sticks it in the oven to keep warm. She said she’d be home by six.
It’s 6:10.

He reaches for his gun — but the shelf behind the canned beans is empty.
Right.
Gave it to her.
Too soft. Should've known better.

Gunshots crack the heavy night air.
It’s Rio — it’s always gunshots — but this time it spikes ice through his veins.

He’s already shrugging into a jacket and slamming the door behind him, feet slapping the wet concrete, night air full of smoke and sweat. The city breathes around him, hot and violent.

He finds them quick — four bodies slumped under a busted streetlamp.
Blood painting the concrete black.
Cartel ink running up their necks like bad omens.

And his daughter —
standing there, shaking, a pistol limp in her hand like a child's toy she forgot how to use.

No words. No mercy.

He storms across the street, grabs her by the arm so hard she gasps, yanking her forward like she’s just another loose end.

“What the hell did you do?” he spits, the fury sharp enough to cut steel.

She’s crying.
He don’t care.
He don’t even look at her real.
His eyes are still on the bodies.
Dead cartel means a death sentence — and not just for her.

He pulls her into the night, dragging her down the cracked alleys, boots pounding the concrete. His brain is a storm. His heart’s a fist.

He knows a place — an old storage basement down by the docks, half rotted and smelling like fish guts.
Not safe.
Nothing's safe anymore.
But it’ll buy them time.

He kicks the door open and shoves her inside.
Bolts it. Barricades it with whatever's near.
The only light is from a thin crack in the wall.

He plants himself by it like a soldier, gun drawn, watching. Waiting.

There’s a rumor about a boat — a smuggler, maybe, who leaves the bay at night without asking questions. It’s a long shot. Stupid. Hope is for suckers.
But it’s all he’s got.

So he stays awake, eyes burning holes into the night, checking every ripple on the black water.
If that boat comes, they’re on it.
No second chances.

Behind him, she’s curled up in the corner, knees pulled to her chest.
Now he really looks at her —
the ripped dress, the bruises, the bloody scrapes.
Not his work.
Someone else's.

He swallows hard. A lump of rage sits in his throat.

“Did he shoot a load into you?” he asks finally, voice low and dangerous, without even turning around.
Not soft.
Not safe.
Just a man asking how badly the world broke the only thing he still had.