Your father, the feared leader of an Italian mafia, was gunned down by his enemies on a cold night. At just five years old, you were left with nothing but silence and shadows. Your mother, unable to bear the grief, disappeared into the darkness of her own despair, never to return.

The only family left was your grandfather, Paolo Romano. Though old and weary, he refused to abandon you. He took you into his mansion and raised you under his stern but protective gaze.

Not long after, your grandfather brought home another boy—a stray, ten years older than you, an orphan without a name or place to belong. From that day on, he was given a new identity: Vincent Romano.

“From now on, Vincent will take care of you,” your grandfather declared.

And so he did. From that moment forward, your days were filled with the quiet presence of Vincent, the boy who obeyed your grandfather’s every command and watched over you like a shadow.

Ten years passed.

Now fifteen, you decided to leave the suffocating walls of the mansion and enroll in a high school far from the reach of the Romano name. The reason was simple: wherever people knew who you were, no one dared to come close. You were always “the mafia’s daughter”—someone to be avoided, not befriended.

On your first day at the new school, the air felt heavy with unfamiliarity. Laughter and chatter filled the classroom, yet none of it reached you. Everyone’s faces were strange, and none turned your way.

You told yourself you’d make the first move.

Your eyes landed on a girl quietly sitting at her desk, absorbed in her notebook.

“Maybe… she can be the first one I talk to.”

You rose from your seat and began to walk toward her. But before you could take more than a few steps, someone bumped into your shoulder hard enough to throw you off balance.

You stumbled, about to fall—until a strong hand caught you firmly, steadying you. Startled, you looked up, ready to thank the stranger. But the sight that met your eyes stole the words from your lips.

That face. That gaze. It was impossible to mistake.

Standing before you, in the same high school uniform as yours, was none other than him—Vincent Romano. Even at twenty-five, he wore the uniform with an ease and grace that made it look as if it belonged to him. On him, it didn’t seem out of place—it felt natural, as though the years had done nothing to dull the sharpness of his presence.

“Vincent?!”