*1 week ago*
The restaurant was one of those places built for peace.
Soft amber lights. A low hum of forks against plates.
Two old men sharing soup near the window.
A couple in the corner murmuring to each other.
An owner wiping glasses with a cloth too clean for the job.
Nothing about the night suggested anything unusual.
Until the door opened.
A faint breeze rolled inside, carrying the smell of rain from the street.
Heads lifted instinctively—not because the man entering was famous, but because the air shifted.
Like someone had lowered the pressure by a fraction.
Vincenzo stepped in.
Calm, tired, a man who wanted nothing more than warm food and silence.
He wasn't dressed to impress—dark shirt, sleeves rolled neat, hair half-settled from the wind.
A gentle blankness lived in his eyes, the kind that came from too many thoughts and too much hunger.
He didn't scan the room like a predator.
He didn't check for threats.
He didn't even notice that the table he liked—Antonello's reserved table—had a tiny plaque on it.
He just saw a comfortable seat.
And sat.
Behind him, four men entered—his bodyguards.
Not loud, not boastful.
But heavy in presence, like shadows peeled off the street and given shape.
Vincenzo lifted one lazy hand without turning.
"Spread out. Don't sit all together.
If anyone needs help, be friendly."
Simple. Soft. Almost shy.
But to the restaurant, that raised hand looked like a silent command for execution lines.
The guards took separate tables.
One near the window.
One beside the bar.
Two flanking opposite corners.
They looked like idle customers—until you noticed how they sat with backs straight, eyes half-hooded, hands resting lightly near their jackets.
To the owner, their stillness was wrong.
Too perfect.
Too synchronized.
A couple quietly placed money on their bill and left.
Vincenzo didn't notice.
He was watching a flickering candle on his table, wondering if he should order soup.
His aura—heavy to everyone else—felt to him like nothing at all.
Antonello walked in ten minutes later.
Elegant suit.
Gold watch.
Business smile.
Tonight he had associates with him—two men who respected him deeply. He wanted everything smooth, polite, predictable.
He didn't look at faces.
He looked at his table.
Except someone was already sitting there.
Someone with dark hair, relaxed shoulders, and a posture too calm.
Antonello's irritation rose fast.
He wasn't a violent man—not normally atleast—but a reserved seat was a reserved seat.
He motioned to his companions to wait.
He walked toward the man sitting with his back to him, prepared to tap his shoulder lightly.
A gentle request.
A soft correction.
Nothing more.
He didn't get that far.
The second Antonello lifted his hand toward Vincenzo's shoulder—
—the restaurant snapped.
A chair scraped.
A sound like a breath being swallowed too hard.
Before Antonello understood the movement, cold metal pressed under his jaw.
A knife.
Held with a surgeon's precision.
A single line of burning cold sliced his skin—so thin it was almost respectable.
A bead of blood, dark and small as a seed, welled at the cut.
"Don't move," the guard murmured.
Another guard stood behind him—no footsteps, no sound.
Two laser dots blinked onto Antonello's cheek and collarbone.
A third hovered over his throat from the side.
The entire restaurant fell silent.
Cutlery froze in mid-air.
A waiter stopped mid-breath.
Antonello's lungs failed him—panic stole the air from his throat. He didn't recognize the man sitting before him yet.
All he knew was—
This is death.
This is how death begins.
He didn't dare blink.
The knife pressed closer—not deep, just enough to remind him that skin was paper.
The red dot trembled against his cheek.
His associates were rooted at the doorway, unable to move or speak.
Then, from the table, a voice.
Soft. Calm.
Completely out of place.
"Nobody shoot.
It's okay.
Sit down."
The tone wasn't commanding—it was gentle, almost scolding, like he was telling kids not to fight.
To everyone else…
it was the voice of a king stopping an execution.
The guards obeyed instantly.
The knife disappeared.
The laser dots vanished like extinguished fireflies.
And the four bodyguards slipped out of the restaurant in eerie silence.
No footsteps.
No whispers.
Just absence.
As if shadows had returned to the dark they were born from.
Antonello stood numb.
Only then…
only then
did Vincenzo turn his head.
Vincenzo's face came into view.
And Antonello's soul fell out of his body.
His knees almost buckled.
Sweat stung his cut.
His tongue glued itself to the roof of his mouth.
"V–V–V–"
The name wouldn't leave his throat.
Vincenzo blinked.
A warm, confused blink.
"Sir… are you all right?
Did someone hurt you?"
Did someone hurt you?
The question stabbed deeper than the knife.
Antonello staggered back half a step, terrified of insulting him by falling.
His associates were pale ghosts behind him.
Vincenzo stood slowly, concerned.
"I'm sorry. Please—sit.
I didn't see."
Vincenzo didn't even know he had taken someone's reserved place.
He had no idea why the man was shaking.
No idea why the whole room was silent.
No idea what his guards had looked like to everyone else.
Inside his own head, he was embarrassed.
I shouldn't have let the guards act like that.
They always misunderstand things.
I hope the man isn't too scared…
Outside?
His aura smothered the room like a storm cloud.
Antonello forced himself into the chair opposite Vincenzo.
His hands trembled so violently he couldn't even set his phone down properly.
He had to show something—anything—to convince this man he meant no threat, no disrespect.
A receipt.
A contact.
A reservation detail.
Anything.
His thumb shook, slipped—
—and his gallery opened.
The first photo that filled the screen:
Sofia.
His daughter.
Cold expression with braces on her legs.
It hadn't been meant for this.
It wasn't an offering.
It was an accident.
But to Antonello, showing her photo to Vincenzo felt like exposing a lamb to a lion.
He panicked.
"No—no—wait—she—she can't walk—please don't misunderstand—"
He scrambled to close it, but his fingers kept betraying him.
The phone clattered on the table.
And Vincenzo… simply looked at the photo.
Quietly.
Long enough to understand only one thing:
The girl was hurting.
Vincenzo leaned back, thoughtful, eyes soft, this girl looks sad, yeah how could she be happy, she can't even walk from the looks of it, maybe i should help her, her face makes me sad, Vincenzo thought without thinking what his intentions ment for others.
"She's lovely," he said gently.
"I can help."
Antonello's veins turned to ice.
Help?
Help how?
Vincenzo continued, sincere:
"If she can't walk…
I'll pay for treatment.
Or equipment.
Or—if it helps—you can bring her to meet me.
I'll see what I can do."
He meant it with innocent practicality.
He wanted to help a hurting girl.
Antonello heard:
He wants her.
He wants her brought to him.
If I refuse, he will take her anyway.
If I offer her, he might spare us both.
Terror squeezed his throat.
Words burst out of him—raw, frantic, unplanned:
"No money!
Only—only marriage—
If she marries, then she is yours!"
The restaurant gasped.
Vincenzo froze.
"Marriage?" he echoed, confused.
"You want me to meet her first, right?"
Vincenzo meant: "Meet her as a doctor or helper." In his mind
Antonello heard:
"He accepted the deal."
His heart thudded as if stamped by fate.
Vincenzo stood first, i scared this man so i should help his daughter as repayment.
"Tell her not to worry.
I'll come meet her."
He smiled—small, warm.
Antonello felt doomed.
He nodded violently, bowing, promising too much, too fast.
And when Vincenzo walked out, shadow melting into city lights…
Antonnello collapsed into the chair like a man who had just survived a demon's feast.
He grabbed his phone.
Sofia's photo stared back.
His mind whispered:
I bound her life.
I bound her future.
I bound her to the devil to save her life.