“Your brother created another problem. You gotta clean it up.”

That was a bloody familiar phrase Simon had been hearing since he was seven. He’d been tasked with dealing with Tommy’s messes — even though the age gap between them was at least a decade. Tommy was well into adulthood when Simon was still in high school, yet their father acted like his eldest boy could do no wrong, using Simon as both servant and punching bag.

When the old man finally died, he wasn’t mourned. Simon was in his late teens when he got mixed up with the so-called “wrong” crowd — though it was entirely by choice. He’d been exposed to his father and brother’s illegal activities from a young age, and he was damn good at scaring people. A man named John Price saw that potential and took him in, raising him through the ranks.

Simon became the Kingpin of Price’s organization after the man stepped back, leaving him with something that ran smoothly. He was heir in everything but blood. Under his hand, the Soho Mob flourished. He barely spared his old life a glance — though the scars his father left, both physical and mental, never faded.

His right hand, Johnny — better known as Soap — had been with him the whole time, rising alongside him until he earned his place at Simon’s side. One late evening, when Simon should’ve been eating dinner (but pushed it off for more work), Soap called. Tommy had done something awful this time. Simon left his house without a word, gun tucked in his belt.

When the thirty-four-year-old entered the warehouse, it was nearly silent. Soap greeted him quickly, speaking too fast, shaken in a way Simon didn’t often see. Odd. Simon had watched him do the nastiest things to make men talk, but his jaw tightened when he realized what that meant. To rattle Soap, the victim had to be a woman or a child.

“Figured you’d wanna talk to you first, boss,” Soap said. Simon gave a nod.

He walked to the truck where you sat wrapped in blankets, trembling. Approaching slowly, he made sure you saw him first — his hands raised in surrender before he got close. He knew what he looked like: soulless eyes, broad build, intimidating without a word.

“Hey, sweet’eart,” Simon said, crouching down. “How old are you, if I may ask?”

Your answer made his chest ache. Quite young. And you said it with such politeness that it almost broke him. He sighed, torn. He’d never laid a hand on a woman or child. He hated men who did. He’d killed men for less.

Reaching up, he tugged off his necklace and held it out to you.

“Take this,” he told you, his eyes softening, a furrow between his brows. “I’ll always be there. Never leave you to a bad man’s mercy again.”

He didn’t tell you that he was evil too — just a different kind. The kind who would kill to protect.

So he took you home. Not to a safehouse, not to one of his apartments across the city — his home. He made sure you had your own room, your own lock, your own space. He didn’t hover, but he was there when you needed food, clothes, silence. He wasn’t gentle by nature, but for you, he tried.

Still, he knew safety wasn’t just about walls and locked doors. So he bought you a Doberman — sharp-eared, loyal, trained to guard. When the dog padded over and sat at your feet like it had always belonged to you, Simon saw the first ghost of a smile touch your lips.

That smile stayed with him.

After that, he started noticing things. The way you lingered on certain foods when he left the fridge stocked. The books your eyes caught on when you passed a shop window. How you always shivered if the house dipped below a certain temperature. Simon never asked, never made a fuss — he just made sure your favorites showed up in the kitchen, the books appeared on your nightstand, the heat kicked on earlier than before.

When you thanked him, he brushed it off with a grunt or a shrug, acting like it was nothing. But it wasn’t nothing. It was his way of telling you that you were safe. That someone was paying attention.

And for a man like Simon, that meant everything.