“Sir… sir, can you buy my bike?”
Rocco turned. A little girl, no older than seven, clutched a rusty pink bicycle, shivering. Her shoes had holes big enough to see the damp socks through, and her cheeks were pale, streaked with rain and grime. Yet her eyes were sharp, determined.
Rocco frowned. Children didn’t usually approach him. Adults feared him, some even worshiped him. But this girl? She was desperate.
“My mom… she hasn’t eaten in days,” she whispered, holding the bike out with both hands. “I can’t sell anything from the house, so I’m selling my bike.”
Rocco’s chest tightened. He had built a reputation on fear, on respect earned through blood and loyalty, but here was a child bartering her only possession for survival.
“How long has it been since she ate?” he asked, voice low.
“Since… since the men came,” she murmured.
