He glanced around cautiously, making sure no one was listening.
“Those who said Mom owed money. They took everything. Furniture, clothes. They even took my little brother’s mug.”
Rocco clenched his jaw. He had heard stories like this before—loan sharks, extortionists, street thugs—but when the girl lifted her sleeve and he saw the bruises on her thin arm, his blood ran cold.
—They said Mom shouldn’t tell anyone— she added softly. —But I recognized one of them.
Rocco fell silent, his voice low and firm.
“Tell me who.”
The girl met his eyes, trembling.
“He was one of yours, sir. My mother cried and said that the mafia had taken everything from us.”
Rocco froze. Not from guilt, but from the realization that someone using his name had dared to prey on a starving mother and her child.
He rose slowly as the rain poured down over his coat.
“Where is your mother now?”
“Home,” he whispered. “He’s too weak to get up.”
Rocco placed his truck keys in her hand.
—Get in —he said.
Because whoever had hurt that child, whoever had taken everything, whoever had hidden behind his name, was about to learn what it truly meant to fear Rocco Moretti.
The drive through the rain took longer than it should have. Rocco gripped the steering wheel while the girl sat quietly beside him, holding onto the bicycle’s handlebars as if they were the only thing keeping her grounded.
Her name was Emma. She was 7 years old and had spent a week selling everything she could to buy bread.
—Turn here —Emma whispered, pointing toward a narrow street lined with broken streetlights.
