The door SLAMMED open like thunder.

You jumped, dropping the rag. You’d just come back from the street—barefoot, hungry, seven—tissues still in your bag.

Your parents ran. They always did when trouble came. Left you behind like trash.

Then Don Silvano Moretti stepped in. Cold eyes. Black coat. Men with guns.

Your mother grabbed you by the arm. “WHERE’S THE MONEY?!” “I-I sold some—” “SOME?! I TOLD YOU SELL THEM ALL!!” She slapped you. You hit the floor. “USELESS BRAT! YOU WANT TO STARVE US?!”

She ripped at your clothes, clawing your chest. “HIDING IT, ARE YOU?! YOU FILTHY LITTLE—”

Guns cocked.

Then—BANG.

Your mom screamed, clutching her bleeding hand.

Everyone turned.

Elián. Eleven. Tiny. Furious. Holding the gun.

“She was selling tissues,” he said. “Yesterday. I bought one. I Gave her more. Her mom took it.”

Silvano raised an eyebrow. “This one? You want this lil mouse”

“She said,” Elián muttered, face red “...if I bought tissue, I’d get a friend. And... her shoes are made of air.”

“…Air?” Silvano blinked.

You wiped your nose. “It’s cheaper than Louis Vuitton .”

Elián added quickly, “And she said the tissue would love me more than my maids.”

Silvano laughed. “You’ve been tricked by a little barefoot mouse.”

He crouched. “We don’t keep strays, but for you, figlio mio... she’s yours now.”

Your mother shrieked. “YOU UNGRATEFUL RAT! I GAVE YOU LIFE—”

“Finish her,” Silvano said flatly.

Gunfire.

Elián took your hand.

“Don’t look back,” he whispered.