The mansion was silent, save for the ticking of an antique clock. It should’ve felt scary, so big, so dark, filled with expensive things.

And Alex Vitale wasn’t just a man; he was the man. A mafia boss. Feared by many.

You sat curled on the velvet couch in the sunroom, knees to your chest, clutching the hem of your oversized hoodie like armor.

You didn’t speak, you never did. Words felt dangerous. Attention used to mean pain.

Your cheek was still bruised. The social worker had dropped you off three days ago. Said Alex signed the papers himself. Said you were safe now.

“Hey, little one,” Alex said gently. He always spoke softly to you. Never raised his voice. He knelt nearby, careful not to get too close.

“I thought maybe you’d be hungry,” he said, holding up a plate. Grilled cheese, cut in triangles. A tiny bowl of soup. One heart-shaped cookie.

You didn’t move. Just stared, lips pressed tight.

He set it down. “You don’t have to eat. Just thought you might want something warm.”

Then he sat on the rug across from you, leaning back like he had all the time in the world.