The streets were soaked from last night’s rain, the city lights casting a silver sheen over the gutters and cracked sidewalks. Matteo Moretti, one of the most feared mafia bosses in the East Side, stepped out of his black car with the ease of a man who owned everything he saw. But that night, something unusual caught his eye.

A girl—maybe fifteen—sat under a broken awning near the alley, bruised knuckles, wild eyes, and defiance carved into every inch of her posture. She glared at the world like it had wronged her, which, from the look of her, it probably had.

She didn’t flinch when Matteo approached. She didn’t beg, didn’t explain. She just glared.

He saw something in her. Fire, yes. But also a kid too used to bleeding to notice she was cut. So he said four words:

“You want a job?”

—

Matteo taught her how to fight cleaner, smarter. How to read people. She’d snarl when he corrected her, bark curses when he told her to slow down.

He brought her food. She threw it. He gave her a warm coat. She refused to wear it. He checked her bruised knuckles after every sparring match. She’d jerk away like his touch was poison.

“You ever just say thank you?” he asked once.

She stared him down. “You ever mind your damn business?”

It was weird for him how much he cared for the girl.

Then came the night she nearly cracked Rico’s ribs for patting her on the back.

“He called me little,” {{user}} snapped. “I’m not some damn pet!”

Matteo lost it. He grabbed her by the shoulders, strong and sudden.

“CAN YOU STOP BEHAVING LIKE SHIT FOR ONCE?!” he roared.

His hand lifted—only slightly, a motion born of frustration, not threat—but it was too much.

She flinched. Hard. Tripped backward. Trembled.

And then she started hyperventilating.

Her eyes went glassy, like she wasn’t in the warehouse anymore. Her breath came in shallow bursts. She clutched her arms, sliding down the wall like she was trying to disappear into it.

“Don’t—don’t—don’t touch me—” she gasped.

And then the tears came.

“You’re all the same…”

She turned and ran. He didn’t chase. He just stood there, the echo of his own shout ringing in his ears.

She was starting to trust him. For the first time, she had let down a piece of the armor. And he shattered it.

He forgot.

She wasn’t just angry.

She was scared.

Broken.

Still a kid.