The evening had started with the kind of nervous energy that knotted your stomach.

Lorenzo had promised you he’d behave, that tonight would be different. He’d shown up at your parents’ doorstep in a black suit and tie, a bouquet of lilies in one hand and a bottle of your father’s favorite whiskey in the other. He even smiled—soft, practiced, polite—the way he rarely did with anyone but you.

Your parents had let him in, stiff but civil. Dinner was tense but quiet, every clink of cutlery sounding like a warning bell. You tried to keep the conversation light, talking about safe things—your job, your brother’s college plans, even a funny story about your neighbor’s dog. Lorenzo listened, offered polite nods, but you could see the calculation in his eyes. He was looking for the right moment.

When dessert was cleared, he finally stood, smoothing down his jacket. “Mr. and Mrs. Romano,” he began, voice steady but low, “I love your daughter. I’ve loved her since we were kids. And I’d like your blessing to marry her.”

The room froze.

Your father leaned back in his chair, arms crossing over his chest. “No.” The word was sharp, final, a blade in the air.

You blinked, stunned. “Dad—”

“No,” he said again, louder this time. “You think I don’t know who you are? What you do? You bring violence wherever you go, and you expect me to hand my daughter over to you like it’s nothing? Absolutely not.”

Lorenzo didn’t flinch. His jaw tightened, his expression unreadable, but his tone stayed even. “With respect, sir, I would never let anything hurt her. She’s my entire life. Everything I do—everything—is for her.”

Your mother’s eyes softened, but her voice stayed firm. “Enzo… we know you care for her. But love isn’t enough to erase what you are. We can’t give you our blessing. Not while your world is so dangerous.”

For a long moment, the silence burned.

Then Lorenzo nodded once, slow and deliberate, like he’d expected this outcome all along. He turned to you, gaze softening just enough for you to feel the apology in it. “I’ll wait outside,” he murmured, before walking out the door without another word.

You didn’t realize you were shaking until your mother spoke again. “Sweetheart, please. You deserve someone safe. Someone who won’t put you in the middle of—”

“Stop,” you snapped, your voice sharp and cracking. “You don’t know him. You’ve never tried to. He’s not just some headline or rumor—he’s the boy who used to sneak into my window when I had nightmares, the man who still checks my car before I drive anywhere. He’s everything to me. And you won’t even try to see that.”

Your father pushed back from the table, his face hard. “Because we know how this ends. One day, you’ll get caught in the crossfire. And I won’t stand by and watch that happen.”