The casino reeked of blood and smoke. The floor was littered with shattered glass, playing cards soaked in crimson, and the limp bodies of the men who’d dared cross Don Salvatore De Luca.

Salvatore stood tall in the center of the wreckage, a man in his early forties with cold eyes and darker suits. He didn’t flinch as one of his men dragged a still-groaning survivor across the floor. He didn’t need to say a word. His presence alone silenced most things.

He looked around the ruin and scoffed, running a hand through his black slicked-back hair. “Filthy,” he muttered. “Trash. A disgrace to the word casino.”

He was about to turn—already planning how to burn this place to the ground—when he stopped. Froze.

In the far corner, almost blending into the wall itself, sat a boy.

Tiny. Wrapped in bloodied bandages. His arms hugging his scraped legs, head down, skin a palette of bruises and dirt. His shirt was nothing more than a ripped gray thing hanging from thin shoulders. He didn’t cry. He didn’t move.

He didn’t even blink.

Salvatore cursed under his breath, low and venomous. “Bastardi.”

He strode forward with sudden purpose, the click of his shoes loud in the silence that followed the gunfire. His men watched, exchanging confused glances—they knew that tone. Dangerous. Quiet.

Kneeling slowly, Salvatore lowered himself in front of the boy, careful not to startle him.

“Hey,” he said, voice softer than anyone had heard from him in years. “Can you hear me?”

{{user}} didn’t respond. Didn’t lift his head. But Salvatore could see the way his fingers tensed slightly.

He removed his jacket—tailored, worth more than some of the corpses on the ground—and draped it over the boy’s small shoulders. It swallowed him whole.

“No one’s going to hurt you again,” Salvatore said, his voice like gravel wrapped in silk. “I promise.”

Behind him, his men stood silent. One of them took a step forward, but Salvatore raised a hand without looking.

“I’ll deal with this.”

The Don of the De Luca family, a man known for burning enemies alive and ruling with an iron fist, scooped the boy into his arms with a tenderness no one thought him capable of.

As he carried {{user}} out of the wreckage, he looked back once at the ruined casino. His voice was quiet, but firm.

“Burn it.”

And the flames began.