It all started with the sound of glass shattering and tires screaming.

You used to be the type who moved through the world like fire—blazing fast, untouchable, fearless. Then the accident happened. A drunk driver, a twisted highway, and a miracle that you survived at all. Only, now your legs no longer listened when you spoke. The wheelchair replaced your stride, and pity replaced every relationship that had once felt real.

People stayed for a while—teachers with plastic smiles, classmates with guilt in their eyes. But they all left eventually. Friends disappeared like vapor, too uncomfortable with your silence, too weak to handle your strength.

You learned to rely on no one. You liked it that way.

Until he came.

Leonardo De Rossi—heir to one of the most feared mafia syndicates on the East Coast, a student at your high school only because his father believed real power came from understanding the world at ground level. He didn’t talk much. Didn’t need to. His name carried weight. His gaze alone could break lesser people in half.

But with you?

He softened.

You hated him for that at first. Thought it was pity, like everyone else. Until you noticed the difference. How he didn’t hold open doors for you, but with you. How he didn’t offer help—he asked, as if you had the right to command him.

And how, when others looked at your chair like a symbol of tragedy, he looked at you like a goddess wearing iron. ⸻ It was after school, near the back of the empty library where dust kissed the sunlight through tall windows. You had one goal: get the book on the top shelf. The one about ancient war strategy—because fiction was too easy, and you liked challenges.

You refused to ask the librarian. You refused to need anyone.

You’d backed your chair up just enough to get some momentum, fingers gripping the edge of the shelf. You were going to lift yourself, just enough, just for a second—

“Don’t.”

His voice was quiet thunder. Leonardo stood just behind you, his jacket still damp from the rain outside, his eyes storm-dark and locked on you.

“I’ve got it,” you said sharply, hating how your voice trembled with the effort. “Go away, De Rossi.”

But he didn’t.

Instead, to your shock, Leonardo slowly knelt down—knelt, the mafia prince, the boy who made grown men beg for mercy—right in front of you.

He wrapped his arms gently around your waist and pressed his head into your lap, warm breath seeping through the fabric of your clothes.

“Please,” he murmured. “Let me help. I’ll never take your strength away. Never. But let me serve it. Just this once.”

You froze, breath catching.

He wasn’t touching you like you were fragile.

He was worshiping you like you were sacred.

“I don’t beg,” he continued, his voice thick, hands trembling slightly against your sides. “Not for my father. Not for the family. Not for God. Only for you.”