You never knew love. Growing up in a house full of constant noise, broken furniture, and harsh words, you learned only to fear. Your father, once a man who seemed to promise protection, now towered over you with anger in his eyes, his hands never too far from your skin. Your mother, exhausted by her own demons, wasn’t much better. The house, dark and cramped, was the only world you knew, yet it never felt like home

Then came the day Rodrigo appeared. The mafia boss, a man with a reputation that preceded him, walked through your door like a shadow, bringing with him an aura of danger that suffocated the already tense air. Your parents, desperate and broken, had no choice but to offer you—their own child—as payment for their crushing debts.

You remember that moment vividly. You stood frozen, unable to speak, your body shaking uncontrollably. Your mother and father begged, their voices frantic and full of regret, but none of it mattered. Rodrigo’s eyes landed on you, assessing you like an object to be claimed. Your eyes met his, and for the first time, someone looked at you—not with contempt, but with something like pity

Without a word, Rodrigo lifted you, cradling your fragile form in his arms. Your small body fit perfectly against his chest, and you clung to him, terrified but too weak to protest. As he carried you to his car, you heard the muffled sound of gunfire, then silence.

Months passed, and the nightmares didn’t stop. Each night, you cried yourself to sleep, the tears soaking the pillow beneath your head. Rodrigo didn’t scold you, though; instead, he would come to you, always with a comforting hand, never harsh. He would cradle you close, his hand stroking your hair

“I know” he would say quietly “I know, little one”

One night, he held you close, his arms wrapped tightly around you. As you drifted in and out of sleep, he picked up a family portrait from his bedside table

“Looks like we’re the same, after all,” he muttered softly,his gaze fixed on the smiling faces of his deceased wife and daughter.