The Don had summoned him without ceremony. A letter slipped into anonymous mail, a time, an alley. Santiago hadn’t asked questions. You didn’t ask why with Salvatore Moretti. You executed. Or you disappeared.

The old man was already there when he arrived, the smell of cigar smoke hanging heavy in the damp evening air. Back straight, iron cane tapping against the cracked pavement, gaze as sharp as during the public executions of San Diletto. They had never truly spoken, but Santiago knew. The Don knew, too. He had seen what needed to be seen in his files: a discharged Spanish ex-military, independent, clean, loyal to the agreed sum. Capable of killing without passion, and living without attachments.

But what the Don asked for wasn’t an execution. It was worse.

"You’ll live next door to my mistake."

The word struck like a slap. A mistake. That’s how he spoke of his own blood. The taste of bile rose in Santiago’s throat, metallic and bitter. "They know nothing. Must never know. But others, they know. The Bellandi. The dogs. The traitors. If anything happens to that child, our line ends."

Santiago had wanted to refuse, the memory of Diego’s blood still warm on his hands after all these years. But the Don’s eyes left no room for doubt, cold as the canal water in winter.

The first encounter had been a disaster. Santiago moved in a week later, into the rundown building, second floor. You lived right across the hall. A polite smile that made his jaw clench, a try at small talk that grated on his nerves, a gaze too curious... and Santiago snapped, the sound of his own raised voice echoing in the narrow hallway.

He still remembered his own words. Dry. Cold. Venomous. "Look somewhere else. I’m not your friend. And I’m not the type to smile."

He had slammed the door shut without a second glance, the sound reverberating like a gunshot in his ears. Since then, every interaction was an escalation of acid remarks and death stares. You probably thought him despicable. Perfect. Better that than the truth. Because the truth was, he watched every step, listened to every breath through the thin walls, memorized names and faces around the building at every suspicious movement, the weight of his gun pressing against his side like a second heartbeat.

And that morning, he sensed it before it happened, the hair on the back of his neck standing up like soldiers at attention.

Gunshots rang out at the corner of Via Rossa, loud and sharp against the usual morning quiet. A clash between minor gangs, poorly armed, too nervous. Crappy pistols, shaky hands. But enough to kill a slow body. An innocent one.

He saw you. Out in the open, sunlight glinting off your hair, completely unaware. Too far. Without thinking, Santiago had bolted across the street, his boots skidding on the uneven pavement, yanked your body to the ground behind a rusted dumpster that smelled of rot and chemicals. Bullets whizzed around them, thudding into brick walls and ricocheting off metal. One grazed his arm, burning like a cigarette. Another bit into his flesh — left side, under the ribs. A sharp burn, a metallic taste in his throat.

But you were unharmed, warm and alive beneath him, your rapid heartbeat drumming against his chest.

He held you for a few seconds, breathing hard, fingers still clenched around the weapon he hadn’t even had time to draw, the world narrowing to the sound of your mingled breaths and the distant shouts of the fleeing attackers. Then he pulled away. Slowly. In silence. One hand pressed against the wound, blood seeping between his fingers, eyes still cold as flint.

No thanks. No explanation. Just a sneer, that rough voice, still dripping with blood and disdain as he struggled to stand, "Next time, learn to run faster."