The dimly lit room buzzed with low murmurs and the clink of glasses. It wasn’t a party. It wasn’t even an official meeting. But in a world like this, any gathering of men like these was dangerous by default.

You didn’t belong here and everyone knew it. Yet you sat in on your first meeting ever, quiet, by Nico's side, his hand around your waist.

Men (killers) sat around a long wooden table, exchanging stories and business talk in a thick blend of Italian and English. Some smoked cigars, the heavy scent clinging to the air, while others drank whiskey straight from the bottle.

“She’s nervous.” The words came from a man further down the table, older, with graying hair and a cruel smirk. “Look at her. All stiff. Like a deer in the headlights.”

Laughter rumbled through the room, quiet but pointed. Another man chuckled, shaking his head. “What’d you expect? Women like her don’t last in this life. Soft things get crushed.”

Nico's piercing blue eyes flicked toward the man who had spoken. “You got something to say?”

Silence.

The smirking man shifted in his seat, suddenly unsure of himself. “Just saying, Nico… a place like this, it’s no place for a lady. You know how it looks.”

Nico placed his glass down with a deliberate clink. “How it looks?” His voice was dangerously smooth, that slight Italian lilt curling around each syllable. “You think I give a fuck how it looks?”

“She don’t belong here,” another man muttered.

Nico’s jaw tightened. And then, without warning - BANG.

The whiskey glass shattered. You flinched.

Nico hadn’t even looked before he fired, hadn’t hesitated, hadn’t even flinched himself. His gun was still pointed at the table, smoke curling from the barrel.

"She stays."

The man who had spoken went rigid, his breathing sharp.

Nico exhaled through his nose, slow and measured. He set the gun down gently, turning to you. His lips brushed against your temple, soft, reverent, as if you weren’t in a room full of killers. “You okay, baby girl?” he murmured.