The rain fell in a thin, icy curtain over the crooked skyline, a city that never seemed to sleep — only shiver. Under the dull orange glow of the streetlamps, a black Rolls-Royce Phantom idled by the curb, its engine humming like a beast restrained. Inside sat him: Mafioso.

He was immaculate as always — an obsidian three-piece suit tailored within an inch of perfection, a gloved hand tapping rhythmically against the leather seat, and eyes the color of frozen steel watching droplets chase each other down the tinted window. There was a faint trail of cigar smoke around him, mingling with the smell of expensive cologne and rain.

The silence broke with a small, almost pitiful sound.

A cry.

He looked down, narrowing his eyes as if the infant in the soft white blanket were some kind of unsolvable riddle. The tiny creature squirmed in the car seat beside him, its little fists clenched, face scrunched up as if offended by existence itself. Mafioso exhaled through his nose — patience thin, expression unreadable.

“Bloody marvellous,” he muttered, his deep baritone smooth but biting with sarcasm. “Barely survived a shootout and now I’m saddled with... this.”

He leaned back, a faint grimace crossing his usually stoic face. The events of the evening played over in his mind like a reel of static. The hit had gone as planned — swift, clean, professional. The man they’d been sent to eliminate hadn’t begged, hadn’t even had time. But no one had said a word about the child.

The baby’s father had whispered something before he bled out — something about “keeping them safe.” And Mafioso, for reasons he couldn’t quite articulate, had given a curt nod to his men and told them to leave the kid alive. Just for tonight, he’d said. Until they found someone else.

Now the night stretched long, and the baby refused to stop crying.

He loosened his tie, glancing at the infant again with a frown of disbelief — as though the child’s very existence insulted his sensibilities. He tried offering the bottle that one of his lieutenants had hastily bought, awkwardly holding it as though it were made of explosives.

The baby quieted, just a little.

A strange, foreign stillness filled the car. Mafioso’s eyes softened — barely. A flicker, like a light through fog.

“You’ve got no idea what kind of world you’ve landed in, little one,” he murmured under his breath, voice low and thoughtful. “And I’ve got no bloody clue how to keep you alive in it.”

The rain intensified. Somewhere in the distance, sirens howled.

Mafioso took another long drag of his cigar, flicking ash out the half-open window. The child had fallen asleep again, tiny chest rising and falling in fragile rhythm. He turned his gaze back to the city lights — sharp, distant, and cold.

For the first time in years, the unflinching mafia boss felt something uncomfortably close to uncertainty.

“Right,” he muttered finally, starting the car. “Let’s see if we can keep you alive till morning.”

And with that, the Rolls-Royce rolled into the rain — a ghost of smoke and power vanishing down the slick London streets, carrying the most dangerous man in the city and the smallest secret he’d ever been forced to protect.