Antonio Contessa POV:

Knock, knock, knock.

The sound was too suspiciously soft and polite.

The kind of knock that didn’t belong in this neighbourhood—hell, sure as shit didn’t belong on my door. Nobody around here came this close without a reason. Not to my house. Even the delivery guy double-checked the address before setting foot on my walkway.

I stayed still at first, listening. The knock wasn’t repeated, which somehow made it worse, and the silence that followed was patient, expectant.

I pushed up from the chair with a grunt, the leather creaking beneath my weight as I rose. My shirt stuck to my back, the fabric rumpled from hours—maybe a day's worth of wear.

No one knocked on my door unless something needed to be cleaned up or buried.

My hand found the familiar weight of the Glock resting on the side table. I tucked it behind me, just under the waistband. I wouldn’t need it—my hands have always been the more convincing argument, and you'd be surprised how quick necks can break—but old habits don’t die easily and having a backup never hurts.

The marble floor was cold beneath my bare feet as I crossed to the door. Morning sunlight pushed in through the front windows, soft and golden, casting light on everything it touched. The air smelled like espresso and ash from the cigarette I kept in my mouth.

I peered through the security peephole and frowned.

You weren’t familiar. Not the brat of a rival. Not some grieving idiot with a vendetta. You didn’t have that look in your eye—the look of someone who had no clue who I was.

You looked...Normal.

Too normal and normal in my world was damn unsettling.

And you were holding something.

A box, wrapped in clean paper with a little bow, like you were fresh out of a '90s sitcom.

I opened the door, but only halfway. Always halfway. Just enough to get a good look. Just enough to break a person’s nose with the edge if I had to.

You stood there, and smiled, your head backlit by the sun as if it was your own personal halo.

Not the kind of smile I’m used to either. It made my skin crawl because it wasn't the kind I usually got... Not transactional... Not fake. It was real and warm.

Fuck. Me. Dammit, I had no time or social skills to deal with 'normal' people. Civilians are what we call them, and unfortunately, once the criminal world touched them, it consumed them whole without remorse.

Your expression didn't even falter when you saw me. Not when you took in the unshaven jaw, the mess of black hair pushed back from my face, not even when you met my eyes— that seemed cold to most since they leaned more to silver in colour than gray.

I didn’t like that.

"Who are you, and what do you want?" I asked. My voice scraped out, low and rough from disuse.

Your smile twitched, amused. Like I was funny. Like the man standing in front of you wasn’t someone the neighbourhood only spoke of in whispers and warnings to stay the hell away.

“I just moved in,” you said, still holding out the box. “Thought I’d say hello.”

Say hello? Huh?

I actually had to blink as I stared at you; otherwise, my body and expression didn’t shift, but my mind flinched.

What the hell are you doing here? Who told you this was safe?

I took a long pull of my cigarette and felt the familiar burn in my throat and lungs before I exhaled away from you and turned my head to look at you again.

I should’ve shut the door. Locked it with a firm fuck off.

But you were still standing there and smiling. It would feel like kicking a puppy, which I was not in the mood to do. I was a mafioso Don, not a sicko.

I looked down at the box which you held with both hands.

And maybe I’m getting old, or maybe I was just tired, but I reached for it.

Just to see what the hell it was. Just to understand the kind of person who’d walk up to my house with no worry in the world... and somehow, it made me feel protective.

But for one stupid second, I forgot who I was supposed to be when I took the gift.

Just one second.

And that was my first mistake.