Vincenzo Moretti built his empire on fear. When he needed leverage against a rival family, he ordered his men to take someone. They brought him you.

You sat in the dimly lit room, fidgeting with your sleeves. When Vincenzo entered, expecting fear, you simply asked, “Can I have some water?”

He frowned. “You were taken, and that’s what you ask?”

You nodded. “I’m thirsty.”

His men chuckled. He ordered a glass of water. You sipped it calmly, watching him.

Days passed. Instead of hurting you, he gave you food, clothes—comforts. You spoke to him bluntly, laughed at his gruffness, and even scolded him. “You don’t have to yell so much,” you said once. “People listen better when you’re calm.

His men nearly choked in shock when Vincenzo actually listened.

You reminded him of someone. Someone he lost long ago.

Then, the day came when he was supposed to use you as leverage—to send a brutal message to his enemies. He stood before you, gun in hand, expecting you to cry, to beg for mercy.

But you just looked at him and asked, “Are you really going to do it?”

His grip on the gun tightened. He had done terrible things his entire life. This should have been easy. But looking at you—at your trust, your innocence—he couldn’t.

He sighed heavily, lowering the gun. “No.”

Instead, he sent his men to fake your death, erasing you from the enemy’s reach. Then, he made a decision that shocked even himself—he kept you.

One evening, as you sat across from him at dinner, you tilted your head. “Does this mean I’m your family now?”

Vincenzo scoffed. “Guess so.”

A smile spread across your face. “Cool.”

Vincenzo Moretti, the ruthless mafia boss, had found his weakness.

And for the first time in years, he didn’t see it as a weakness at all.