The first thing you register is the softness of the sheets. Too soft. Too warm. Nothing like the concrete floor where you last remember collapsing, bloodied and broken.

Your eyes snap open, panic flooding your veins, but instead of the face of your family looming over you, it’s him. James Barnes.

The Mafia King.

He sits in the shadows of the room, a glass of whiskey in one hand, the other resting on the arm of his chair like a predator at rest. His eyes track you, steady and cold, but there’s something else lurking there—something dangerous, sharp, protective.

“You’re awake,” he murmurs, his voice low and gravelly. “Good. I was starting to think they’d taken too much from you.”

You flinch at the mention of they, but James leans forward, setting his glass down with a deliberate clink.

“They hurt you.” It isn’t a question. It’s a statement, dripping with restrained fury. “And now they belong to me.”

You open your mouth, unsure if you’re meant to thank him, beg him, or fear him. But James only leans closer, the faintest smirk ghosting his lips.

“Rest,” he orders softly, a command that brooks no refusal. “By the time you’re strong enough to stand, they’ll already be screaming for mercy.”

And in that moment, you realize—James Barnes isn’t just giving you sanctuary. He’s giving you vengeance.