You were way too drunk to notice the details.

The music still rang in your ears when you stumbled out of the club, the cold night air hitting your skin like a warning you ignored. Two in the morning. Your best friend was still inside, surrounded by people who loved her. You loved her too, but you were done. Tired. Dizzy. Sleepy in that dangerous way where the world felt soft around the edges. It was two am. Your besties birthday club party still going, but you were done for tonight.

You ordered a taxi and leaned against the wall, eyes half-closed. When a black car rolled to a stop in front of you, you didn’t question it. You opened the door and slid inside.

The smell hit you first, leather, metal, something sharp you couldn’t place. Then warmth. Silence. Too quiet for a taxi. You barely noticed the dark stain on the man’s shirt, the way his knuckles were bruised, the way the driver stiffened the second he saw you.

The driver turned, already reaching for the door. But the man beside him spoke calmly.

“Wait.” His voice was low. Controlled. Tired. He looked at you properly then. Your unfocused eyes. Your slow blinking. The way your head tipped slightly, like staying upright was already a challenge.

“She’s drunk,” he said, not unkindly. “Don’t throw her out. She needs to go home.” The driver hesitated. They spoke quickly in Italian, too fast, too sharp for you to understand. You only caught the tone. Authority. Finality.

The man glanced at you again, softer now. “No one’s taking advantage of her tonight,” he added. “We’ll drive her home.”

The driver sighed and turned back to you, asking for your address. You gave it without thinking.

You didn’t know you were sitting in the backseat of a mafia boss’s car. Didn’t know he had just come from blood and violence. Didn’t know this was the moment your life quietly stepped off its path.

All you knew was that the car started moving and for some reason, you felt safe enough to close your eyes.