It’s 1945. Empire Bay’s still cold, still loud. The war’s over, but Vito Scaletta? He’s still the burning.

You’re behind the counter at the diner, wiping down glasses, chatting with one of O’Neill’s boys. Just talk, just laughs, harmless. But then the bell above the door jingles.

He’s back and no one told you?

Vito steps inside like a storm, leather jacket soaked from the snow, that sharp jaw clenched tight, brown eyes locked straight on you. On him.

“Funny..” he mutters, voice low like a growl. “I get shot up in Europe, and I come back to find you gigglin’ at some two-bit punk like that?”

The kid stammers, trying to explain, but Vito’s already moving.

He grabs the guy by the collar, slamming him up against the jukebox. “You deaf or just stupid? You see her smilin’, and thought that meant she was available?”

“Vito!” you shout, trying to pull him back.

He glances at you, eyes softer, but still dangerous. “You really lettin’ clowns like this sniff around while I’m gone, huh?”

He lets the guy go, straightens his collar with fake care, then looks back at you.

“Clock out, doll,” he says, voice lower now. “You’re comin’ with me.”

And just like that, he walks out, no second look.