The restaurant fell into a silence so thick it was hard to breathe. Conversations ceased, silverware hung suspended in mid-air, and even the background jazz seemed to fade into a distant whisper.

Vincent Moretti, 36, raised his fork with the calm of someone accustomed to the world stepping aside for him. He was the youngest head of the family in history. They said he had ice in his veins. That he didn’t even tremble when ordering someone’s death.

Just as the tip of the knife was about to cut the first piece of meat, a scream split the room in two.

—Don’t eat it!

All heads turned towards the door.

There stood a girl of about eight, thin, soaked from the rain, shivering as if the cold were breaking her bones. Her blond hair clung to her forehead in heavy clumps. Her cheeks were pale… but her blue eyes, those eyes, held a terror that shouldn’t exist in a child’s face.

Behind her came a young, disheveled, red-haired woman wearing an old t-shirt clinging to her body from the water. She ran to the girl and stood in front of her like a human shield. The little girl clung to her shirt with the desperation of someone who has only one thing in the world.

“Please, sir…” the girl gasped, pointing at Vincent’s plate. “Don’t eat it. Please.”

The armed men reacted instantly. Pistols raised, barrels pointed directly at the two unknown women. The customers sank into their seats. No one dared to move.

Vincent raised a hand.

That gesture was enough to freeze everything.

“Why?” she asked, her voice low and steely. “How does a child know what’s in my food?”

The red-haired woman squeezed the girl’s shoulders. Her hands were trembling, but she didn’t back down.

—Please, believe him. He’s telling the truth.

The girl swallowed. Her lips trembled before she exhaled.

“Because I saw it…” she whispered. “I saw a man put poison on his clothes.”

The world seemed to have been hit with a blow.

Vincent’s fork hovered inches from the plate. His gray eyes stared at the girl as if trying to pierce her. His men exchanged tense glances, searching for a sign.

And then the girl said a phrase that froze the blood of the most feared man in the city.

—Yesterday… he also tried to poison my aunt and me.

The woman, Scarlet, went white. As if that confession had ripped away what little air she had left.

“That’s true,” he said, his voice breaking. “We almost died last night.”

At that moment, Vincent Moretti understood that it wasn’t just an attempted murder. It was a message. A warning. And the key to it all was there, soaked, barefoot, trembling in front of him.

Vincent took a step toward them. His men didn’t lower their weapons, but no one dared move as he advanced. He stopped less than a meter away. Close enough to see the raindrops clinging to Scarlet’s eyelashes. Close enough to hear the girl’s nervous breathing.

“What’s your name?” he asked, still cold, but with something different in his tone.

“Scarlet Brennan,” she replied. “And this is Mia. My niece.”

Vincent’s gaze swept over the worn clothes, Mia’s bare feet, the weariness etched on Scarlet’s skin. He also saw an old wedding ring on her finger, dulled by time… and he understood without being told: they had lost almost everything, but they still had each other.

“Why take the risk?” Vincent insisted. “They don’t even know who I am.”

Mia peeked out from behind her aunt and looked directly at him. Without fear. Without hesitation.

“Because no one deserves to die without knowing why,” she said, her small voice falling in the room like a sentence. “My mother died… and no one explained anything to me. I don’t want that to happen to you too.”

A man to Vincent’s right, Tony Russo, inhaled sharply. Another, Derek Sullivan, barely lowered his weapon, as if something in that sentence had touched a part of him he thought was dead.

Vincent remained motionless.

Because in Mia’s eyes he saw a reflection he hadn’t expected. A memory.

Twenty-six years ago, he had been a ten-year-old boy in a church, watching his father collapse in a pool of blood. And no one told him why. No one comforted him. No one explained anything. Only silence… and a promise that made him the man he was.

Mia was looking at him with that same open wound.

“Your mother…” Vincent said slowly. “What kind of person was she?”

Mia smiled, but it was a sad smile, too mature for such a small face.

“She was the best person in the world,” he replied. “She always said that even when life gets tough, you still have to do the right thing… because it’s the only thing no one can take away from you.”

Vincent didn’t answer. He just took a deep breath, as if he had just heard a painful truth.

But he couldn’t get lost there. Someone had tried to kill him, and that girl was the only witness.

“Mia,” he said, and for the first time his voice didn’t sound threatening. “You said you saw the man put poison in. Describe him.”

The girl closed her eyes for a second, like someone rewinding a scene burned into their memory.

“He’s tall… almost as tall as you, but a little shorter. Brown hair… with gray here”—she pointed to her temples—”and he has a long scar on the back of his left hand. Here.”

He pointed between his thumb and forefinger.

Vincent felt a sharp blow to his chest.

That scar… he remembered it.

Ten years earlier, in a territorial dispute, Vincent had cut a man’s hand with a broken bottle. That man ended up becoming his father’s most trusted right-hand man.

Marcus Cole.

“Anything else?” Vincent asked, no longer hiding his tension.

Mia nodded.

—He was wearing a very nice watch. Black, with a gold rim… and a mark on the six. I noticed it because my mom showed me pictures of expensive watches in magazines.

Vincent swallowed.

That watch wasn’t just any watch. He himself had chosen it as a gift for Marcus Cole when he was promoted to senior advisor to the family. A watch with the Moretti lion engraved on it, custom-made.

That watch had “died” with Marcus, buried next to him after a warehouse explosion seven years earlier.

Vincent had been at the funeral.

I had seen the coffin being lowered.

He had thrown the first handful of earth with his own hand.

And now an eight-year-old girl was telling him that the watch was on the wrist of a living man… a man who had just tried to poison him.

Tony Russo approached, pale.

—Chief… if it’s Marcus Cole… then…

Vincent raised his hand to silence him. His eyes remained fixed on Scarlet.

—You said he tried to kill them last night. Tell me exactly what happened.

Scarlet inspired, as if she were searching for courage in a place where there was nothing left.

—We slept under the Brooklyn Bridge, near an old factory. Around two in the morning, a man arrived with food. He said he wanted to help us.

He stopped, squeezing his hand on Mia’s shoulder.

—I thought he was nice… but Mia saw it.

Mia spoke with an unsettling calm.

—He thought I was asleep. He took out a small bottle and emptied it into the food container. Then he stirred it. Just like he did with his plate today.

Vincent’s stomach tightened.

-And then?

—I pretended to wake up and told my aunt I wasn’t hungry. She understood. We pretended to eat… and ran. She chased us, but she couldn’t catch us. We ran all night.

Vincent put the pieces together quickly, as he always did.

—And why did you come here? How did you know I would be in this restaurant?

Scarlet and Mia looked at each other.

Mia replied:

“This morning we were hiding in an alley near here. I saw him again. He was talking on the phone next to his car and didn’t know I could hear him.”

Vincent felt the pulse hammering in his temple.

—What did he say?

Mia closed her eyes to remember word by word.

He said, “Eliminate the last witness before we deal with the boy. Have him with Moretti tonight. No mistakes.”

The room fell into a murderous silence.

“The boy.”

That’s what Marcus called Vincent when he was a child, running around his father’s office. He said it with an almost unclely familiarity. Like a mentor. Like a trusted confidant.

Marcus Cole had not died.

He had faked his death.

And now he was back to kill Vincent.

Tony spoke in a low, urgent voice:

“Chief, if Marcus is alive, we’re in a terrible position. He knows everything. Routes, warehouses, weaknesses…”

Derek Sullivan, cold as a tombstone, fixed his gaze on Scarlet and Mia.

—And there’s also the problem of the witnesses. They’re outsiders. They know too much.

Scarlet tensed her body and hid Mia behind her, ready to fight even though she knew she didn’t stand a chance.

Then Vincent spoke.

Two words. Soft. Definitive.

-Enough.

He turned to his men with a new coldness, more dangerous than any shout.

—These two saved my life. While someone on the inside was trying to poison me, two strangers, who owe me nothing and don’t even know who I am, risked everything to warn me.

He stepped forward… and positioned himself between them and their weapons like a wall.

—From this moment on, they are under my protection. Whoever touches them, dies. No exceptions.

Nobody argued. Nobody breathed.

Vincent turned around.

—Where’s James Carver? The chef. I want to see him now.

A man left quickly and returned minutes later with a distraught face.

—Boss… Carver is gone. His locker is empty. His things too. Nobody knows where he is.

Vincent didn’t seem surprised. He simply confirmed what he already felt: Marcus wasn’t alone. He’d planted someone inside… and had been waiting for the perfect moment for years.

“Find him,” Vincent ordered. “Dead or alive.”

When his men dispersed, Vincent turned his gaze towards Scarlet and Mia.

Mia was no longer trembling. She watched Vincent with those blue eyes, as if trying to decipher him. As if she wanted to know if he was a monster or salvation.

And Vincent did something that no one in the restaurant expected to see.

He knelt down.

A man muttered a “it can’t be” without realizing it.

Vincent lowered his gaze to the girl’s level.

“Mia,” she said, her voice sounding strangely human. “You were very brave. You did something many adults wouldn’t dare to do.”

Mia tilted her head.

“Are you going to catch the bad man?” he asked. “He’s already hurt a lot of people… and he’s not going to stop.”

Vincent held that gaze, feeling a heavy promise forming in his chest.

“I promise,” she said slowly, as if swearing an oath. “I will find him. And I will make sure he never hurts you or your aunt again.”

Mia studied it for a long moment.

“My mom used to say that good people keep their promises,” she whispered. “I’m going to wait… to see if you’re good.”

Vincent didn’t answer. He stood up, the weight of that sentence still clinging to his skin.

That same night, an armored limousine cruised through Manhattan. Inside, Mia fell asleep almost immediately, snuggled in Scarlet’s lap, clinging to her shirt as if letting go would mean losing the world. Scarlet gazed silently out the window, one hand stroking the little girl’s blond hair.

Vincent watched them from the opposite seat. He saw the calluses in Scarlet’s fingers, the deep circles under her eyes, the weariness that seemed ancient. It wasn’t the polished beauty of the women who surrounded him at power events. It was something else: resilience. A life that had battered her, yet she still stood tall.

Scarlet felt his gaze and faced him without lowering her eyes.

“Why are you helping us?” he asked quietly, careful not to wake Mia. “You… you don’t give anything away for free.”

Vincent could have lied. He could have said he needed witnesses, information, a piece on his board.

But he chose the truth.

“Because they don’t know who I am,” he said. “They don’t know what I’ve done. They don’t know the value of things in my world. And yet they came. They risked their lives for a stranger.”

He leaned slightly towards Mia, who was asleep.

—That… is rarer than diamonds.

The car arrived at a mansion on Long Island, enormous and cold like a castle built to intimidate. Guards, cameras, black bars. It wasn’t a home. It was a fortress.

Mia woke up and opened her mouth, amazed.

—This house is bigger than the hospital where my mom was…

Scarlet squeezed his hand, unsure if this world was a refuge or a cage.

They were given a spacious room, two large beds, and new clothes folded with meticulous care. Mia touched the white sheets as if they were a miracle.

“So soft…” she whispered, her eyes filling with tears. “Auntie… it’s been so long since I slept in a bed.”

Scarlet turned to the window and trembled. Not from cold. From shame, from relief, from pent-up pain. Vincent left them alone and ordered hot food.

Later she returned with two cups of tea. Mia was already asleep under a blanket, finally at peace. Scarlet was still holding her hand, as if sleep were fragile.

“She’s all I have left,” Scarlet said, almost as if confessing. “I promised my sister I would protect her… even if it costs me my life.”

Vincent’s silence was an invitation, and Scarlet began to speak, in the low voice of someone recounting something they have carried for too long.

She had been a nurse. She worked for years in oncology. She saw people fight against that cruel disease… until it affected her own sister, Hannah. Hannah had a husband, David Chen, an accountant at a shipping company. A simple life. A seemingly normal family.

Until the diagnosis came.

Advanced cancer.

Scarlet quit her job to care for Hannah and Mia. She spent her savings, sold things. She stayed up all night. And as Hannah grew weaker, David did the unthinkable.

“He left,” Scarlet said, and an old anger burned in her eyes. “Two weeks after I started chemo. He left a note. He just wrote: ‘I didn’t sign up for this.’”

One line.

And he disappeared.

Hannah fought for eighteen months. Remissions and relapses. Hopes that were shattered. Three months ago, she died one autumn morning. She squeezed Scarlet’s hand and made her promise to take care of Mia.

Then came the final blows: no money, no stable job, no fixed address. The bank foreclosed on the apartment. They were evicted two weeks after the funeral. They ended up on the street. Two months sleeping in stations, libraries, parks, under bridges. Scarlet skipped meals so Mia could eat.

“And the most incredible thing,” Scarlet said, tears streaming down her face, “…is that she never complained. Not once. She would just take my hand and say, ‘It’s okay, Auntie. We still have each other.’”

Vincent listened in silence, feeling a slow fury growing in his chest. Not against them. Against the world. Against how easy it was to ignore other people’s pain when you lived behind bars.

When Scarlet finished, Vincent took his phone and made a call.

“I need you to investigate David Chen,” he ordered. “Accountant. Worked at a shipping company in Manhattan. Married to Hannah Brennan. Disappeared two years ago. And I want any connection to Marcus Cole.”

Scarlet looked up at the sound of that name, confused and frightened. Vincent told her to wait.

Forty-five minutes later, the phone vibrated. A long message. Attachments. Documents.

Vincent read, and his face darkened with each line, like a sky before a storm.

When he finished, he looked at Scarlet with an expression she couldn’t decipher.

—You said David worked for a shipping company… do you remember the name?

Scarlet shook her head.

—No… it just had something like “global” or “international”.

Vincent said the name with icy calm:

—Global Maritime Logistics.

Scarlet nodded, recognizing him at once.

Vincent breathed, as if what was coming weighed too heavily.

“On paper it’s legitimate. In reality… it’s a front Marcus Cole used to launder money. David Chen wasn’t just any accountant. He handled Marcus’s transactions for almost ten years.”

Scarlet ran out of breath.

—What… what are you saying?

Vincent did not look away.

“David didn’t disappear because your sister was sick. He disappeared because he was afraid of Marcus.”

Scarlet blinked, trying to hold onto a truth that was shattering into pieces.

—So… why is that man chasing us? We don’t know anything.

“It doesn’t matter what they know,” Vincent said. “What matters is what Marcus thinks they might know. David lived with Hannah for years. He could have said something, left something behind… and Mia could have seen or heard something without understanding it.”

Vincent approached and, for the first time, placed a hand on Scarlet’s shoulder with an intention that was not control, but protection.

“You weren’t a random target. You’re the last witness on his list. And he won’t stop until you’re dead.”

A small sound came from the bed.

Mia sat awake, her eyes wide in the dim light. They didn’t know how long she had been listening, but from her expression it was clear she had understood enough.

“Auntie…” she said in a whisper. “Is my dad a bad man?”

Scarlet felt something pierce her chest. She ran to hug her, to hold the world in her arms.

But Mia wasn’t asking a childish question. She was putting pieces together.

“Dad worked with bad people,” she said, as if she had always known it. “Dad left because he was afraid. Dad left Mom alone.”

Scarlet was speechless. She just hugged her tighter.

Vincent approached and did the unthinkable again.

He knelt beside the bed, facing the girl.

“Mia,” he said in a voice that seemed to come from an old, wounded place. “I don’t know what your father was like. I have no right to judge him. But I know one thing for sure.”

Mia looked at him, waiting.

“You and your aunt are good people. And good people deserve protection. Not for money, not for power… but because they are good. That’s enough.”

Mia remained silent. Then her voice trembled, but it did not break.

—My mom was good too… and she still died.

That sentence hit Vincent like a bullet.

He swallowed.

“I know,” he whispered harshly. “I know how it feels.”

And for the first time in decades, Vincent Moretti spoke of himself without a mask: his father murdered in front of him in a church when he was ten years old. The oath that turned him to stone. The reason he built power and an army: so he would never feel powerless again.

Scarlet looked at him and saw what no one else saw: pain beneath the ice.

The early morning hours became a flurry of plans and calls. But something changed in that mansion. Something small. Like a light turned on in a hallway that had always been dark.

The next morning, Mia appeared with a drawing. She placed it in front of Vincent as if it were an official document.

It was the mansion… and in front of it, three figures: a man in a black suit, a red-haired woman, and a blonde girl holding both of their hands.

“This is our family,” Mia said simply. “Because you said so last night. Family stays together.”

Vincent held the paper. He felt his throat close. He felt his hand tremble. A man who had survived internal wars… shaken by a clumsy, colorful drawing.

Scarlet entered and stopped when she saw the scene. She saw Vincent with the drawing in his hand, and for the first time in her eyes there was no calculation. There was something fragile. Something human.

The phone rang.

Vincent answered and listened, without moving his face.

Tony Russo was speaking on the other end, tense.

—Chief… we found Carver. He’s dead. But before he died he wrote something on the wall with his blood.

Vincent squeezed the phone.

—What did he write?

—Harbor Inn. Room 307.

That night Vincent went to the Harbor Inn alone, knowing it could be a trap. He climbed old stairs, walked down a dark hallway, and opened the door to room 307.

Inside, the air smelled of fresh cigarettes. The bed still bore the imprint of a body. And on the desk were papers arranged as if someone had prepared them for him: a map of the port with Pier 17 marked, photos of him entering the restaurant, in his car, on the mansion’s balcony.

In the background, a folder left him frozen.

A file with the name Scarlet Brennan. Her nurse’s photo. Her medical history. Her old address.

And another one with the name Hannah Brennan, with a death certificate and medical details.

And one more, thick, full of transactions, recordings and photos of David Chen with men Vincent recognized.

On top, a handwritten sheet:

Last witness. Resolve before phase three. Scarlet and Mia.

Vincent’s heart turned to stone.

And then a voice came out of the darkness, calm, as if the man had been sitting in a chair waiting for years.

—I knew you’d come, kid.

Vincent spun around with his gun raised.

Marcus Cole emerged from the shadows, older, grayer, but with the same cold eyes as always… and the same watch on his wrist.

“Put the gun down,” Marcus said. “You know you were never faster than me.”

Vincent clenched his jaw.

“Why?” he spat. “Why did you fake your death? Why did you come back? And why did you kill my father?”

Marcus smiled without joy.

—Because Antonio was a fool. He wanted to make this “legitimate.” He wanted to hand everything over to you… a clean kid. I built that empire with blood. I wasn’t going to let them take it from me.

Vincent felt the rage rise like fire.

—You killed him in a church… in front of me.

Marcus shrugged.

“It was the only way you’d see it. I wanted you to grow up afraid. And you succeeded. You became strong. Cold. You built an even bigger empire.”

He leaned forward slightly, satisfied.

—And now I come to claim what is mine.

The first shot exploded in the air.

Vincent jumped aside and answered. The room erupted in thunder. Shattering glass. Shouts. Footsteps.

The door burst open and Derek entered with guards… but Marcus’s men also entered from the corridor, like armed shadows.

It was hell.

Derek fell wounded. The guards died. Vincent reloaded, fired, rolled, bled. And in the midst of the chaos, Marcus uttered a phrase that made his stomach churn.

“You want to know what happened to David Chen, kid? I didn’t let him get away. I caught him and made him talk for three days… and then I killed him.”

Vincent felt nauseous.

Mia had lost her father much sooner than she thought.

And Marcus finished, with cruel pleasure:

—Before he died, David told me something else. He confessed everything to Hannah. He had time to talk… and Hannah wrote a letter. A letter for Scarlet. A letter I never found.

Vincent froze for a second.

A letter. Evidence. A trigger.

That explained everything.

That’s why Marcus wanted to erase Scarlet and Mia.

Vincent couldn’t stay there. He had to go back to the mansion.

I had to get there before…

His phone vibrated in the middle of the escape.

A message from Tony:

Boss, there’s trouble at the mansion. Security has been breached.

Vincent’s heart stopped beating.

Marcus hadn’t summoned him just to kill him. He had kept him there so his men could attack the real target.

Scarlet. Mia.

Vincent gripped the steering wheel furiously and drove like a man who no longer raced for power… but for a promise.

When he arrived, the gate was destroyed. There were unfamiliar vehicles in the yard. Gunshots could be heard inside his house.

Vincent didn’t enter through the front door. He went through a secret tunnel that only he and Tony knew about. He moved through the mansion like a shadow, eliminating intruders, going upstairs with his gun ready and his chest burning.

Upstairs, Scarlet ran with Mia by the hand, remembering the safe room behind the wardrobe. She got the girl inside, stood in the doorway with her gun trembling, listening for footsteps, gunshots, and breaking glass.

“Are we going to be okay?” Mia asked, clutching the “family” drawing to her chest.

Scarlet gulped.

“We’re going to be all right,” she said, forcing herself to sound firm. “Mr. Vincent is coming back. He promised.”

Knocks on the door.

—Scarlet… Mia… it’s me.

Scarlet did not lower the weapon.

—How do I know it’s you?

There was a second of silence.

And then that deep voice spoke the exact truth that only he knew.

“You promised your sister you’d protect Mia. That’s the only thing keeping you alive. And Mia told me her dad never looked at her mom the way I look at you. And this morning she drew three people in front of a house… like a family.”

Scarlet broke down. She entered the code. The door opened.

Vincent was there: torn suit, blood on his face, dust on his shoulders… alive.

Mia ran first.

Scarlet afterwards.

And Vincent did something that also didn’t fit with his legend: he hugged them both, squeezing them as if the world was trying to take them away from him again.

—Now we’re family, right? —Mia whispered, still scared, but with a spark of hope.

Vincent looked at the little girl. Then at Scarlet, crying in his arms.

“Yes,” he said, his voice rasping. “We’re family.”

When everything calmed down, Scarlet remembered something that had been buried deep within her grief. Marcus’s words: the letter.

He searched through his few belongings, found his old coat… and there, in an inside pocket, was a sealed envelope, crumpled, intact.

“Vincent,” she said, trembling. “My sister gave me this before she died. She told me not to open it until I needed it… I never had the courage.”

Vincent took the envelope and carefully opened it.

Inside there were two things: a handwritten letter and a small USB drive.

He read aloud.

Hannah apologized for hiding the truth. She said David confessed to her his real job with Marcus Cole. That the USB drive contained records of illegal transactions, money laundering… and something more.

Evidence of the order to kill Antonio Moretti, Vincent’s father, 26 years ago.

Marcus Cole was responsible.

Vincent squeezed the USB drive as if it were the center of the universe.

That wasn’t just revenge.

It was justice.

Vincent prepared everything in two days. He reviewed files, names, numbers, routes. He found Marcus’s weak point: Warehouse Number Seven, in the industrial district. The place where, seven years earlier, he had “died” in a staged explosion.

He sent her a simple message.

Warehouse Seven. Midnight. I’ve got what you want.

I knew Marcus would come.

That night the industrial district was shrouded in fog and metal. Vincent arrived early, positioning men at every entrance, every rooftop, every exit. Tony coordinated from above. Derek, still bandaged, insisted on being there.

At midnight, Marcus walked in alone, confident, with a smile that smelled of arrogance.

“You came without your army, kid,” he mocked.

Vincent looked at him with a dangerous calm.

—I didn’t come here to fight. I came here to finish this.

Marcus laughed.

“Are you going to hand over that evidence? I have people everywhere. The police, the judges… it’s all going to be erased.”

“I won’t give it to the police,” Vincent said. “I’ll give it to the press, the federal government, anyone you can’t buy off. And I’ve already sent copies to twenty addresses. If I’m not back before dawn, it’ll all come out.”

Marcus’s smile broke for the first time.

—You wouldn’t dare.

-I already did.

Marcus spat, furious.

—And why? Because of a girl and a woman? Is that what you call family?

Vincent felt the heat in his chest, strange and firm.

“I have a family,” he said. “And my principle is to protect them.”

Marcus pulled out his gun.

But the fire fell from all sides.

The lights, the shouts, the footsteps. Vincent’s plan unfolded like a perfect trap. Within minutes, Marcus was on his knees on the concrete, wounded, disarmed.

Vincent approached with the gun pointed at his head.

Marcus tried to smile again.

—You’re not going to kill me. You said you have principles.

Vincent didn’t blink.

—Yes. My principle is to protect my family.

A gunshot rang out in the fog.

Marcus Cole fell, eyes open, not fully understanding how he had lost what he believed was inevitable.

Vincent stared at the body for a moment.

Then he turned around and left without looking back.

A year later, the mansion was no longer a cold castle. There were drawings on the walls. Light streamed through light curtains. Laughter echoed through the hallways. Mia was no longer a barefoot child under bridges; she had rosy cheeks, a school, and friends.

Scarlet returned to work as a nurse at a community clinic in Brooklyn, helping people who lived as they had lived. Vincent wanted to give her luxury, but all she wanted was purpose… and peace.

One night, Mia arrived with a new drawing. Another house next to the mansion.

“It’s a house for people who don’t have a home,” she explained. “So that no one has to sleep on the street when it rains… like we did.”

Vincent hugged her tightly and thought it was the best idea he had ever heard.

Later, with Mia asleep, Vincent and Scarlet looked at the garden under the moon, in silence.

“Do you regret it?” Vincent asked. “Regretting coming into my restaurant that night.”

Scarlet smiled softly, wearily, sincerely.

—Never. Because that night I found a home.

And the darkness, for the first time in a long time, no longer seemed invincible.

Now you tell me: if you were Vincent, would you have protected Scarlet and Mia even if it put your empire at risk… or would you have thought first about your safety and your rules?