She looked him straight in the eye, trembling. “It was one of your men, sir. My mommy cried… she said the mafia had taken everything from us.”
Rocco froze. Not guilt, not regret—anger. Rage boiled inside him. Someone operating under his name had dared to exploit a starving mother and child. He straightened, letting the rain soak through his coat, and handed her the keys to his SUV.
“Get in,” he said.
The streets were slick, reflecting neon signs and puddles like shattered mirrors. Emma, the girl, gripped the handlebars of her bike like a lifeline. She told him her mother was too weak to even stand. Her name was Emma. Seven years old. A week spent selling anything of value to buy bread.
The neighborhood grew darker, abandoned houses looming like skeletons. Broken streetlamps flickered, cracked sidewalks jutted in uneven lines, and silence reigned—fear had claimed this place long before the rain fell.
