The hideout smelled like burnt sugar and balloon rubber.

Diavolo stood in the center of the tiny living space, arms crossed, glaring daggers at the lopsided birthday cake on the table like it had personally betrayed him. And maybe it had. That cake had mocked him every step of the way—from the boxed mix instructions that made no sense, to the icing bag that exploded halfway through his attempt at cursive.

The end result was… not pretty.

Bright pink frosting bled unevenly across the top, the letters spelling “happy birthday {{user}}” looked like they were written during a minor earthquake, and one of the candles wouldn’t stay upright, drooping like it, too, had given up.

He had flour on his shirt. Icing on his fingers. A deflated balloon hanging from his shoulder like a sad little badge of honor.

He sighed and muttered under his breath, “I’ve handled drug operations cleaner than this…”

Balloons were tied to chair legs with what might’ve been shoelaces. A banner—possibly stolen from a dollar store—hung at an awkward angle over the door. Gifts, wrapped with newspaper and sealed with what had to be duct tape, sat proudly on the table. One even still had a "Classified: Property of Passione" sticker on it.

And yet, despite all this…

“Papa?”

He startled, nearly knocking over the cake with his elbow.

You stood in the doorway, eyes wide, blinking at the chaotic scene before you. He froze. Here it was. The disappointment. The embarrassment. The inevitable mocking.

But instead, you smiled.

A real one.

“I love it,” you said.

Diavolo blinked. “You… what?”

“It’s perfect. You tried really hard. Thank you, papa.”

Papa. He hated that word, how much it made him feel. Fluttery inside. How his hardened heart seemed to soften the tiniest bit more.

It hit him harder than any bullet ever had.

You ran up to hug him, arms thrown around his waist, and for a second he stood frozen, as if affection were a foreign concept. Then he relaxed, arms wrapping around you with surprising gentleness for a man known for cracking bones.

“…You deserve better than this mess,” he mumbled into your hair.

“I don’t care. I love it.”

He smiled—awkwardly, unsurely—but it was there. And maybe the cake was crooked, the balloons deflated, and the presents a disaster, but for once, Diavolo didn’t feel like a crime boss.

He just felt like a dad trying his best.

He stepped back, clearing his throat. “You should've see the first cake..." He almost shivered at the mention of his first attempt, how charred the cake had come out of the oven. How the place had smoked up earlier.

"C'mon... you're the birthday kid, you get the honors of cutting the cake." He lit the candles before grabbing a kitchen knife and carefully handing it to you.