Desired by the Dangerous Men

“This is an important lesson, figlio mio,” Father said, his heavy hand resting firmly on my shoulder. “That is why I wanted you to come.”

“Yes, padre,” I answered, nodding my head with conviction as I fell into step beside him, keeping my posture straight and my movements deliberate, just like he had taught me.

My father was a powerful man, one nobody dared to mess with, one whose mere name made people lower their eyes and cross the street. Everyone feared him—and by extension, they feared me too. It was a strange kind of power to wield at such a young age, and it made it harder and harder for me to do anything else but stand loyally at his side. There was no room for mistakes. No room for softness.

This was one of my very first missions. Father had started bringing me along for more and more business dealings, each one a little heavier, a little more serious than the last. And I loved it. I craved the responsibility, the respect that came with it. I had overheard him once, speaking in low, proud tones to Peter, his right-hand man, saying that I was finally turning into a man. And a man, he said, needed to know how to conduct business properly, with strength, precision, and discipline.

“The family that lives here,” he said, pointing to the almost-fallen-down townhouse in front of us, “has a lot of debt to us.”

I nodded immediately, signaling that I understood what he was telling me. I knew better than to ask pointless questions. Father despised stupidity. He hated when anyone spoke out of turn or wasted his time. If I didn’t have anything vital to say, it was better to stay silent. That was one of the first lessons he had ever taught me. People got nervous and filled the air with meaningless chatter, but if you could master the art of silence, they would end up telling you things they never meant to reveal. And information—information was everything in our world.

“The man in here, Greg Caraway," Father continued, his voice low and steady as we stood on the cracked, trash-strewn pathway leading up to the sagging porch, "has been to our casino many, many times." His mouth curled slightly in disgust. "He owes money for his gambling losses. But not just that—he's also been drinking our liquor, enjoying our hospitality, and he hasn’t paid a single dime."

Our family owned many businesses, something I had been lectured about since I was merely six years old, back when most kids were still learning to tie their shoes. We had the restaurant chain A Taste of Italian, a booming success with seven locations within a fifty-mile radius alone. We had casinos scattered across America, our family branching out, establishing footholds in almost every state capital.

And then there were the less public enterprises.

Father sold guns discreetly to those who knew how to ask, and he provided manpower—bodyguards, enforcers—to the clubs and private venues around town, making sure that his business associates were protected at all times. But there were strict, unbreakable rules: we never touched drugs, never sold anything that would poison the soul, and above all else, we never, ever laid a hand on a woman without her consent.

My uncle, Fillip, had raped an underage girl one time he had been out. My father immediately drove him down to the police station, telling him he could either confess his crime, take his penalty, and, once he was done with that, maybe rejoin the family—or my father would kill him right then and there. My uncle was gone for a few years, but eventually, he returned to the family, never touching a woman ever again.

“And what do we do when people don’t pay us back, figlio mio?” Father asked, his voice low and commanding, making me instinctively straighten my shoulders.

“We take collateral,” I answered, my voice firm and unwavering, the words drilled into me through years of quiet lessons and silent expectations.

“Magnifico, figlio mio,” he said, his thumb rubbing slowly over my shoulder in a rare display of approval. “Greg Caraway is an old, rundown man. We cannot use him for anything. However,” he continued, as we started to make our way up the broken-down porch, the wood creaking and groaning under our polished shoes, “he has a young son—one we can use, one we can train. That will be your responsibility.”

I nodded my head tightly, clenching my jaw as I fought to keep the mixture of nerves and determination from showing. It was a humongous responsibility, one my own father had shouldered when he turned fifteen. That was how he met Peter, how Peter became his confidant, the one man he could always count on no matter what storms the world threw their way. I had expected this moment to come eventually. I had always known that I would have to step into his footsteps, to carry on the legacy. But I was only thirteen—barely a teenager—and already, I was being given the responsibility of keeping another person alive, shaping them into something useful for our family.

Father’s fist clenched once before he hammered on the door with a force that rattled the frame, the noise echoing into the street. I remained firmly by his side, not flinching, barely breathing. I could feel the gazes burning into our backs—the silent presence of my father's entourage, men who had been trusted to protect us, to witness what was about to unfold without ever speaking a word of it outside these walls.

“I’m coming!” a man’s voice bellowed from inside, practically screaming in frustration. It was rough, impatient, and slurred with irritation, sounding just as reckless as my father’s knocking had demanded. “Fucking dipshits, coming in the middle of the game,” he muttered under his breath, the words careless, as if we couldn't hear him crystal clear through the thin, rotting door.

The door finally creaked open, and there he stood—a sorry excuse for a man. Every instinct in me wanted to wrinkle my nose, to step back from the stench of cheap liquor and stale sweat that immediately assaulted my senses. My mouth wanted to curl in disgust, my hands itched to wipe the filth off my clothes just from standing near him. But I stood still, just like I had been taught. Stoic. Impassive. A statue carved in my father's image, not a muscle twitching, not even a narrowing of my eyes.

The man’s hair was greasy, slicked back in clumps that glistened under the weak porch light. His clothes were stained and wrinkled, looking like they hadn't seen a washing machine in months. His skin was blotchy, and the smell clinging to him was enough to make my eyes water. Still, despite his deplorable condition, recognition flashed in his eyes the moment they landed on my father, and his head immediately bowed in a pathetic show of submission.

"Mr. Gallo," he stammered, his voice trembling. "I-I-I don't have your money, sir. I'm so sorry, but money’s been tight, sir."

"I am not here for your money, Mr. Caraway," Father replied, his voice devoid of emotion, as stoic as the expression he always wore in these moments. His hand, still resting heavily on my shoulder, flexed slightly, a silent reminder for me to pay close attention. "I am simply here to execute the consequences of your actions."

Greg Caraway’s face drained of what little color he had. He looked like he might collapse right there, overcome by the reality of his situation. His mouth flapped uselessly for a moment, panic filling his bloodshot eyes. "But—but sir, I have nothing of value here."

"That’s not true, Mr. Caraway," Father said, his hand tightening ever so slightly on my shoulder, his disgust for the man practically vibrating through his fingertips. "Step aside and let me and my son inside."

"Of course, sir. Of course," the man muttered, stepping aside hurriedly, bowing his head low again as if that would somehow absolve him.

"This," Father murmured, low enough for only me to hear, "is your lesson. When we get out, you will tell me what you see."

I stepped into the house behind him, my eyes quickly scanning the surroundings. The interior was no better than the exterior. Some woman had clearly tried to make the place feel like a home—small lace doilies were carefully placed on tables that looked ready to collapse, and cheap, chipped picture frames clung desperately to the dirty walls. The floor was surprisingly clean, suggesting that someone had at least attempted to keep the squalor at bay.

I reminded myself of what Father would expect from me—confidence, composure, authority. So I strode into the living room with slow, steady steps, my back straight, my face impassive, the picture of controlled indifference.

On a battered couch sat a woman, thin and pale, her hands busy stitching a faded t-shirt that had clearly lived through better days. She worked with care, sewing yet another patch onto the worn fabric as if it might still be saved. Beside her, a boy sat quietly, his blue eyes focused on his mother’s work. He looked about my age, maybe a little younger, with the same sun-bleached hair and fragile frame that screamed of neglect.

But it wasn’t him that captured my attention.

Sitting on the floor, barefoot and cross-legged in front of the flickering TV, was an angel. A little girl, no older than seven, her long blonde hair neatly braided, wearing a simple plaid dress of blue, green, and purple. She smiled brightly at the colorful commercials dancing across the screen, her innocence standing out like a single clean spot in a room full of grime.

And somehow, without a single word, I knew: this was a world where angels had no place.

"Who are you?" My gaze fell back on the woman, who was now looking up at my father, who had entered the living room with slow, measured steps. His very presence seemed to change the air in the room, making it heavier, harder to breathe.

"This is Mr. Gallo, Sophie," Greg Caraway answered, his voice low, his eyes dropping immediately to the stained carpet at his feet, unable to meet anyone’s gaze.

The woman gaped at him, her eyes wide and disbelieving, her mouth hanging open in silent horror. Hurt radiated from her expression, pure and raw, more painful to look at than the filth covering the rest of the house. "No," she whispered, the word almost silent, barely carried across the room. "You promised, Greg, you promised me!"

"What do you want me to do?!" Greg immediately bellowed, his voice raw and desperate, his hands thrown out uselessly to his sides. His shout seemed to shake the walls themselves, and that was when everything shifted.

The little angel stood up from where she had been sitting on the floor by the TV. Her movements were small, but her presence was striking. Her wide, curious eyes immediately sought out the boy on the couch. Without a word, they moved toward each other, a silent communication passing between them. He shifted to stand protectively in front of her, his thin frame tense but determined, shielding her from the chaotic scene unfolding.

Her bright blue eyes, filled with worry and confusion, peered over his shoulder—and for a second, just a second, they locked with mine.

That was the moment I knew.

At thirteen years old, standing rigid in someone else's crumbling living room, I knew who would be mine. I knew who would one day stand at my side, who would share my burdens and my crown, who would help me rule an empire. My whole future, my whole life plan, seemed to crystallize in that single gaze.

“There’s nothing I can do now, Sophie!” Greg roared again, snapping me out of my trance and dragging my attention back to the escalating argument.

"There is, actually," Father said, stepping forward, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade. Both of them turned to look at him, their faces pale and stricken.

"You see, Mrs. Caraway," he began, his tone deceptively calm, almost conversational, "your husband owes me fifty thousand dollars." His words landed like gunshots, and Sophie gasped, clapping her hands to her mouth in horror.

"There is an easy way for him to pay me back," Father continued, each word deliberate, each syllable carefully measured. "One that would help you out as well. Wouldn’t you like to have some more income, Mrs. Caraway? Enough to pay for some renovations around here? Maybe even a new couch?"

Sophie Caraway turned her gaze slowly towards her husband, her eyes filled with pure, undiluted contempt. "And how can you make that happen, Mr. Gallo?" she asked, her voice trembling with rage and confusion.

"I'll take the boy off your hands," Father said smoothly, his face utterly impassive. "He'll come with us now. He’ll work for me and my son, pay off your husband's debt. He'll earn a fair wage. I'll take half for the debt, and the other half will be sent directly back to you. I will ensure he still goes to school, that he is fed properly, and that he has decent clothing."

Sophie and Greg were speechless, standing frozen, too horrified even to protest. Their mouths opened and closed soundlessly like fish stranded on dry land.

And then, something unexpected happened.

The boy straightened his back, his face tightening with resolve. He took a step forward. "I'll do it," he said, his voice fragile but clear, filled with a fierce bravery that made even my father’s eyes sharpen with interest. "On one condition," he added, lifting a trembling finger.

Father’s mouth curled slightly into something resembling approval. "And what is that, boy?" he asked.

"That you make sure nothing happens to my sister," the boy said, his gaze flickering between me and my father, daring us to say otherwise.

"What is her name?" I asked, stepping forward, feeling my father's calculating gaze land on me.

"My name is Lillian," she said herself, her small voice steady and clear. Her blue eyes shone with defiance as she looked straight at me, her tiny brows furrowed in a fierce scowl.

"Lillian," I repeated softly, tasting the name like it was a promise. My eyes darted back to the boy, and I gave him a single, firm nod. "Pledge your loyalty to me, and I’ll make sure nothing happens to Lillian."

He did.

And I never let anyone put a hand on Lillian ever again.