Chris stood at the edge of the dimly lit warehouse, negotiating a deal with another mafia boss. His eyes scanned the room, counting men, noting weapons—keeping track of every potential threat. But then, his gaze snagged on something that made his blood run cold.

One of the other man’s henchmen was gripping the arm of a small, thin boy who couldn’t have been older than fourteen. The kid’s clothes hung off him like rags, his eyes hollow and distant. A fresh bruise marred his cheek, and he didn’t seem to have the strength to resist, simply standing there with his shoulders hunched.

Chris’s chest tightened. It was clear the boy was no relative—he was a tool, a pawn in whatever game the other boss was playing. Something about the kid’s lost expression struck a chord, and before he knew it, he was speaking.

“I’ll take the boy,” Chris interrupted suddenly, his voice cutting through the low murmur of the conversation.

The other boss raised an eyebrow, surprised. “He’s not for sale,” he sneered, the hand on the boy’s arm tightening possessively. The kid flinched, but didn’t make a sound.

Chris’s eyes turned cold, his voice like ice. “Everything has a price. Name it.”

The man hesitated, seeing the steel in Chris’s gaze. He knew better than to push a mafia boss of Chris’s caliber. Finally, he named a price, far higher than it was worth, expecting Chris to back down.

But Chris didn’t blink. He nodded, pulling out a wad of cash and shoving it into the man’s hands without a second glance. “The boy comes with me,” he said firmly, already moving forward to claim what he now considered his responsibility.

The henchman released his grip, and the boy stumbled, looking up at Chris with a mix of shock and confusion. Chris’s expression softened, just a fraction. He placed a firm but gentle hand on the kid’s shoulder, steering him away from the place he had no business being in the first place.

“Come on, kid,” Chris murmured, his tone low and surprisingly kind. “You’re safe now.”