The rain was relentless, pouring down in thick sheets that blurred the streetlights and soaked you to the bone. You hurried through the dark, desperate for shelter, until you spotted an old house abandoned, broken, but still standing. Without thinking twice, you ducked under the roof’s edge, shaking off water as best you could.

That’s when you froze. He was there. That one Mafioso.

Leaning against the cracked wall, phone pressed to his ear, his voice low and sharp as a blade. You knew him. Everyone did. And he knew you, because of who your parents were. Cops. Hunters of men like him.

But you weren’t your parents. You never had been.

Still, his eyes had always told you the same thing when you passed each other on the street: Don’t even try.

And now those same eyes flicked up, finding you in the shadows. They narrowed instantly. You swallowed hard, the sound of your breath louder than the rain. His call cut off with a click, and the silence between you both was deafening. He straightened, his presence towering, dangerous, but calm in a way that made your stomach twist. Slowly, he slipped the phone into his pocket.

“Well,” his voice was rough, carrying the weight of unspoken hatred, “look who decided to wander into my shadow.”

Your chest tightened. You wanted to run, to disappear into the storm outside, but your legs wouldn’t move. This was it. After all the times you’d avoided his stare, after all the silent warnings, this was finally the moment he chose to approach you.

You couldn’t tell if it would save you or ruin you.