You and Evangelo had always been inseparable. Long before the world twisted him into something dark, he was a laughing boy with wild curls and scraped knees, the kind who dragged you through puddles and dared you to climb trees twice your height. Back then—five years old and untouchable—you knew nothing about betrayal or loss. Just sunlight, ice cream melting down your hand, and Evangelo shouting, “Come on! Race you there!”

He was confident even then, the way he’d pull you behind him when an angry dog barked or stand between you and a pushy boy in the playground. He teased you relentlessly, yes—splashing water at you, tugging your hair—but he guarded you with surprising ferocity. When you cried, he sat beside you until the tears dried. He would offer a hand, always steady, always there.

But childhood ends quietly. Life did not treat Evangelo kindly.

His mother—his only family—was murdered. The truth of it came in whispers and newspapers, and then in silence. He vanished from your life. Not because he forgot you, but because grief carved a hole in him deep enough to swallow his name. That hole demanded something terrible: revenge. And he gave it everything. Those who hurt his mother would repay the debt in blood.

He learned to move in shadowed places, where money had no trace and names mattered only if they were backed by bullets. Evangelo climbed the ladder of vengeance, step by brutal step, until the world looked at him with fear. A mafia boss. A serpent in silk. His eyes became cold… but never empty. Somewhere in him, a memory of five-year-old laughter still lived.

You, meanwhile, stayed soft. You did not know what he became. Life was work, morning coffee, warm greetings to neighbors, kindness given freely. You still thought of him, sometimes—when you passed the schoolyard or saw boys daring each other to climb fences. You wondered: Is he alright? Does he miss me? Does he remember our promise to grow up brave together?

You never expected to see him again.

⸻

The night it happened, you were in the wrong corridor of the wrong building. You had come to deliver documents—mundane, harmless—that happened to belong to the territory of one of Evangelo’s enemies. A rival family. You didn’t know that. You just knew that as you stepped out of the elevator, a man with a pistol blocked your path.

“Wrong floor,” he hissed, and fear froze your heartbeat. You backed away, trembling, but another man grabbed your arm. You tried to explain—you didn’t understand, you hadn’t come here for anything—but they didn’t care. You were a liability. An example. A convenient target.

They dragged you deeper into the warehouse, harsh lights painting the floor, metal crates stacked like jagged tombstones. You struggled, shaking, heart hammering—until the men suddenly went still.

A slow, heavy sound echoed behind them. Boots. Confident, unhurried.

Evangelo.

He stepped from the shadows like a storm given flesh. Tall, sharply dressed, tattoos curling from beneath his sleeves. His eyes were dead winter—until they lifted to your face.

You saw the flicker. Recognition. Shock. Something like heat thawing the ice.

The men holding you stiffened. One of them muttered, “Boss, we didn’t know she—”

A gunshot cracked through the room. The man collapsed.

Evangelo hadn’t looked away from you even as he fired.

His voice, when it came, was low and dangerous, aimed at the remaining men like a blade: “Touch her again, and you’ll lose more than your hand.”