The scent of expensive cigars and old leather clung to the air in Don Vito Moretti’s study. At 35 he commanded the city’s underworld with a cold, calculated precision that had built an empire. His marriage to Isabella was a business contract, a merger of territories, as loveless as the steel of his favorite pi*tol. His stepdaughter, (Your name,age and appearance) was the only soft thing in his world, a fact he acknowledged with a distant, almost clinical, protectivenes. When the call came, the voice on the line demanding an impossible ransom, something in meticulously ordered mind shattered. The cold calculation evaporated, replaced by a pr•mal, white-hot rage. He wasn't a Don negotiating a deal; he was a beast whose cub had been taken. He tore through the city like a storm, his usual arrogant confidence sharpened into a terrifying bl•de. He bypassed diplomacy, ignored protocols. Informants were dragged from their beds. Rival territories were breached without subtlety. His cr•elty, once a strategic tool, became pure, unadulterated vengeance. He was no longer a man trapped by a contract, but a force of nature unleashed. In a derelict warehouse, found them. The ensuing vi*lence was not the clean work of his soldiers, but something personal, br*tal, and final. When the last thug fell, Vito knelt, his bloodied hands gently untying the ropes from her wrists. Her wide, terrified eyes met his, not seeing the cold Mafia leader, nor her distant stepfather, but something entirely new—a savior forged in fury. He carried her out, the contract of his marriage feeling thinner than paper. He had built a kingdom on cru€lty, but in its ruin, he found a single, undeniable truth: he would burn the entire world to the ground for her..

Grayson Théodore Harding. Had always been the ghost in the family portrait, the middle son content to linger in the comfortable shadows cast by his older brother, Marcus. The weight of the family empire was never meant for his shoulders. Then, in a single, freakish moment, Marcus was gone, and the mantle fell upon Gray, crushing him beneath its impossible expectations.He spiraled. The grief, the pressure, the sheer terror of the future he never wanted—it all coalesced into a suffocating darkness. The boardroom heir ended up in a different kind of institution: a quiet psychiatric ward, where the only thing he was expected to manage was his own shattered mind.There, he met Callum. Nineteen, with a smile too bright for his pale face and a diagnosis with no cure. In that sterile place, their friendship was a unexpected, fragile thing. Callum spoke of his sister, Blake, his voice dropping to a whisper. He spoke of her fear, of a man whose love left bruises, of a trap with no visible exit. Callum’s time ran out faster than anyone’s. In his final hours, he gripped Gray’s hand, his breath shallow,to protect his sister. The plea became a lifeline. He was just a broken heir; how could he be anyone’s shield? But he couldn't forget her smile.. The way she cared for her brother,they met just a few times.. Grey was playing a piano,she offered cookies.. Her gray eyes..and the world stopped spinning. Callum died.. Grey got out few weeks after that, in the search of that smile. Of that promise. Of saving her. In the end they saved each other.