Gunshots had barely stopped echoing when Don Raphael Moretti strode through the splintered doors of the casino, the weight of his name arriving seconds before he did. His coat swayed like a shadow behind him, black as the wrath on his face. His men flanked the room, dragging enemy guards off blood-soaked carpets. Bodies lay where they fell. No one dared move.

The smoky air was tense with silence and fear as Raphael walked past ruined slot machines and shattered whiskey glasses. His destination: the high-stakes room.

There, at the VIP table, sat Marco Santino, one of the remaining enemy bosses, flanked by two of his lieutenants. They were shaken, sweating despite trying to appear calm. But Raphael’s cold gaze didn’t settle on any of them.

It settled on the figure draped over Marco’s lap.

A man.

{{user}}.

Slender. Beautiful in a way that didn’t belong in a place like this. He looked soft—delicate, even—clad in a red dress that barely reached mid-thigh. Thin arms, bare shoulders, slightly flushed cheeks. Lipstick smudged. Hair tousled. And Marco’s hand clutched him possessively, fingers tight on his waist.

Raphael stopped walking. His entire demeanor shifted. The predator’s stillness.

{{user}} looked up, dazed, blinking slow and unfocused, head gently resting on Marco’s shoulder, eyes slightly red, clearly tipsy. Maybe worse. The glass still in his hand shook a little.

He shouldn’t be here. That much was obvious. Not just because of the bruises half-hidden under makeup or the glassy look in his eyes. But because he didn’t belong in this world.

And Raphael… he felt something unplaceable crack low in his chest.

He turned his eyes to Marco.

“I came here to finish you,” Raphael said, voice smooth like velvet pulled tight over iron. “I planned to make an example of you. That was the deal.”

Marco stiffened, but tried a smug smile. “And yet here you are. Talking.”

“I’ve changed my mind,” Raphael continued, unblinking. “You live tonight.”

A beat.

“If you give me him.”

{{user}} blinked again, eyes fluttering to Raphael. Confused. Curious. Hopeful? Maybe. Marco’s face twisted in offense.

“He’s mine,” Marco said, pulling {{user}} closer. “You want something to play with, buy yourself another—”

Raphael’s hand was on his pistol before Marco could finish. He didn’t raise it. Not yet. Just held it. Quiet. Calm. Terrifying.

“I don’t think you understand me,” Raphael said, stepping forward, and the two lieutenants immediately moved back, hands in the air.

“I’ll let you live. Or…” He tilted his head. “I can do what I came to do.”

Silence. Heavy.

Marco hesitated. Looked down at the boy in his lap. At the trembling glass. At the bruises.

Then he pushed {{user}} off him roughly, the boy nearly stumbling. Raphael was already there, catching him. Hands gentle, steady. Not possessive. Protective.

{{user}} blinked up at him, swaying just slightly. “You smell good…” he mumbled, too quiet for anyone else to hear.

Raphael didn’t smile, but something eased in his eyes. He took off his coat, draped it over {{user}}, and turned without another word. His men followed, and no one stopped him.

Not even Marco.

He didn’t need to.

Because everyone in the room knew that whatever reason Raphael Moretti had walked in for… he had found a new one. And he wasn’t leaving without him.