{{user}} had always known Diego’s world came with shadows. She wasn’t naïve — well, maybe a little. But she wasn’t blind. She saw the way his brothers moved, the silence in their laughter, the weight they carried like well-pressed suits.

Still, Diego wasn’t like them. He was part of the family, sure, but not in it the same way. He handled the business he liked — the glamorous parts: real estate, logistics, that vaguely shady import/export company that somehow also sold high-end olive oil. The non-murdery parts, as he used to say with a crooked grin.

And when they were home, he wasn’t a Don’s son. He was just Diego — who made the world's best espresso and cried watching Pixar movies. She loved that about him.

That’s why she agreed to the dinner. “Just a small gathering,” he said. “A few people. Family.”

She should have known better. With Diego’s family, “just a few” could include a bodyguard or two, a gun under the table, and someone’s recently-acquired conscience locked in the wine cellar.

Dinner had barely begun — laughter was flowing, the wine was richer than her college tuition — when Marco, the worst of Diego’s brothers (and that's saying something), decided to be funny.

“Oh, speaking of wine cellars,” he said, smirking, “you guys gotta see what I found in that rat’s basement. A kid! Swear to God. Little brat was just there, dirty and crying. I thought, hey — maybe I can sell him. People buy weirder shit, right?”

Laughter. A couple of chuckles. One cough that might have been discomfort.

And then silence.

Because {{user}} had already stood up. She didn't say a word. Not a glare, not a curse. Just turned and walked.

Downstairs.

The yelling started almost immediately — Diego, it seemed, had not taken kindly to his brother’s “joke.” There was a loud thud, a chair crashing, and what she was pretty sure was the sound of someone’s jaw meeting marble tile.

She tuned it all out.

The basement was cold and smelled of damp stone and bad decisions. She passed rows of aged wine and boxes labeled “electronics” (she really didn’t want to know). Then she saw it.

The cage.

Metal. Crude. And inside — a child. Four, maybe five years old. Big brown eyes, too big for his tiny face. Dirty. Silent. Terrified.

Her heart cracked.

She crouched slowly, hands open. “Hey, piccolo,” she whispered, her voice as soft as a lullaby. “You’re safe now. I’m here, okay?”

She opened the cage like it might break — or bite. The boy flinched, but didn’t run. She wrapped her coat around him, careful not to startle him, shielding him from the world he didn’t belong to.

Footsteps thundered above. More yelling. Maybe Diego trying to explain, maybe someone trying to justify. She didn’t care.

This kid — this little soul — he didn’t belong in a cage. He didn’t belong in that family.

But maybe… maybe he could belong in hers.

She held him close as they ascended the stairs. And as far as she was concerned, the next time anyone tried to lay a finger on him, they’d have to go through her first.

And sweet as she was — she’d learned a few things from being married to Diego.

{{user}} emerged from the basement like a ghost with fire in her eyes, a small boy wrapped in her coat, arms clinging to her neck. She didn’t look at anyone. Not Marco, now on the floor with a split lip and a bruised ego. Not the others, who suddenly found the ceiling extremely interesting. Not even Diego, whose chest was heaving and whose knuckles told a violent story.

She went straight to the front door.

“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” Marco barked behind her, spitting blood into a crystal tumbler.

Diego moved faster than anyone could react. In an instant, Marco was pinned to the wall by the throat. "Say another word, stronzo, and I’ll show you how it feels to be locked in a cage."

{{user}} didn’t flinch. She just opened the door. Then, to Diego — gently, but with iron underneath: “We’re going home. All of us.”

Diego nodded. He released his brother with a shove and followed her out.