~10 years ago~

Damien's pov

Not everyone knows the exact second their life shifts,but I do.
I remember how the air was heavier than usual, thick with moisture that clung to my skin. A sharp fog coiled through the streets, seeping into my lungs like icy needles. The November cold slithered beneath my thin shirt, settling deep in my bones.
My fingers trembled as I pulled a cigarette from the crumpled pack, my grip clumsy from the chill. The lighter felt smooth against my fingertips as I flicked it open, the tiny flame dancing before my eyes. I took a slow drag, letting the smoke curl around my tongue before exhaling into the night. With each breath, my nerves steadied, the weight in my chest easing—if only for a moment.
"God, Damien, I told you to let those cigarettes go!"
My mother's voice cut through the quiet, sharp enough to make me jolt. The cigarette nearly slipped from my fingers as I turned, pulse spiking.
"You scared me!" I muttered, my voice sharper than I intended.
The cigarette slipped from my fingers, hissing as I crushed it under my boot. My hands were still unsteady. My chest felt tight. I shoved them into my pockets, trying to mask the restless tapping of my fingers against my thigh.
"You try being calm when you have an exam for the Academy," I said, forcing out a dry laugh that didn't quite land.
My mother sighed, stepping closer. She didn't scold me for the cigarette, not this time. Instead, she reached out, adjusting the collar of my jacket like she used to when I was a kid. Her touch was light but firm, grounding me.
"Damien, come to your senses," she said softly. "There's no candidate better than you. You've worked for this. You're ready."
I swallowed, my jaw tightening. The words should have reassured me, but they didn't. If anything, they pressed down on my chest, heavy and suffocating.
"Yeah... maybe," I muttered, kicking at the loose gravel beneath my boot. I stared at the ground, my throat dry, my mind tangled with the weight of my thoughts.
Everything I still didn't know gnawed at me.
"I just... I don't know what to say." Her sigh was soft, but her smile was steady. She cupped my face briefly, her fingers warm against my cold skin, then pressed a kiss to my cheek.
"Oh, my silly child," she murmured. "You'll be fine. I'm already so proud of you."
The words should have eased the tight knot in my stomach, but it only pulled tighter. Still, I nodded, pretending to believe her.
"Let's go take that exam, shall we?" she said, looping her arm through mine.
"Okay," I muttered, the weight in my chest still pressing down.
We walked in silence, and I let my eyes wander—tracing the cracks in the pavement, the rusted street signs, the way the wind rattled through bare branches. Anything to keep my mind from spiraling.
My mother talked about architecture and new restaurants we had to visit once I got into the Academy. I heard her voice, but I wasn't listening. Her words drifted past me like background noise, lost to the hum of my thoughts.

As we turned the corner, a bright flash caught my eye—a crowd pressed around the entrance of a luxurious hotel, golden lights reflecting off sleek cars and polished marble steps. The energy in the air was electric, the kind that made people linger, whisper, stare.
"What's going on?" I asked, but before I could turn to my mother, I caught the shift in her expression. The light in her eyes dimmed, her face stiffening like she'd seen a ghost.
"We should hurry," she murmured, grabbing my wrist as she steered me through the throng of people.
But something held me there. I wasn't usually the curious type, but in that moment, it was like an invisible thread pulled me closer, urging me to stay.
"I want to see what's happening," I said, my voice steadier than I expected.
A man beside me turned, eyes gleaming with excitement. "How do you not know?" he scoffed. "Luciano Moretti is getting married today. It's one of the biggest weddings in the Italian mafia. The party's happening right here."
The sound of the crowd swelled around me, the hum of excitement vibrating in my chest, but I couldn't focus on the noise. It was the feeling of something irreversible. My mother's warning clung to the back of my mind, but it was drowned out by a strange sense of inevitability. The mention of Luciano Moretti—the name sent a ripple through me, like the first tremor before a storm.

There was something about the way the crowd moved, their whispered conversations, their eager anticipation—it felt like they were part of something far bigger than themselves, something that pulsed beneath the surface. I'd always known about the mafia, of course, but in that moment, it wasn't just a distant rumor or something in the papers. It was real.

The sight of the crowd, the energy buzzing through the air, began to burn itself into my memory. Every face, every word, every whispered conversation became a fragment lodged in my mind, carving out a space where none existed before and would stay with me forever.

My mother's fingers dug into my wrist, a sharp, silent warning. Something unspoken passed between us, but I didn't heed it. The tension in her grip was unmistakable, yet I stood there, frozen.
"Damien!" My mother's voice broke through the static of my thoughts, but just as I was about to respond, the crowd fell into a sudden, unnatural silence. The hum of voices stopped, and I felt a weight in the air—a shift, like something was about to break.
A sleek black Cadillac coasted to a halt in front of the hotel, its polished surface reflecting the surrounding lights. The engine's growl faded into the stillness, and all eyes turned toward it.
It wasn't the car that made the air feel thick. It was the presence that followed it.

The crowd split apart like a tide, making way for the sleek black Cadillac. From another car, four men stepped out—broad shoulders, rigid stances, their movements sharp and deliberate. Their eyes swept the street with cold precision as they closed in around the Cadillac, muscle and instinct forming an impenetrable barrier. One scanned the rooftops, another the shifting bodies in the crowd, their hands never far from the concealed weight of their weapons.

From the hotel lobby, uniformed employees rushed forward, forming a second wall between us and the entrance. Their posture was stiff—not just trained obedience, but something deeper. Fear. Respect. A silent understanding of who they were shielding from prying eyes.

Then, the car door opened.
The world seemed to exhale and hold its breath all at once. The murmurs of the crowd vanished, every heartbeat synced into a single moment of stillness.
A sharp clack of a boot echoed against the pavement, and then he emerged.

The man was shorter than I expected, no more than fifty, but dressed in a suit so perfectly tailored it could have been cut from the silver screen. He carried himself like a man who knew the weight of his own name. His presence alone filled the space, commanding attention without a single word.
He didn't look his age. He had the kind of face that had weathered time like fine wine—aged, but not worn. Bitter, but refined. His silver-threaded hair was slicked back, his sharp grey eyes scanning the crowd with the keen awareness of a predator. Every glance was calculated, assessing, stripping away the layers of everyone in his presence.
My chest tightened.
I had read about men like him. Heard their names whispered in conversations not meant for me. But standing here, feeling the force of his presence like a storm pressing against my ribs, I understood something I never had before. Power wasn't just in guns or money. It was in the way the air changed when a man like this stepped into a room.
His bodyguards flanked him, moving in seamless synchronization, shielding him from view.

Just then, the boss turned toward the open car door, murmuring something too low for anyone to hear. Another sharp click of heels followed—a softer sound, lighter, yet it carried the same weight as thunder. And then... she appeared.
Time fractured. Stilled.
If I had died in that moment, I would have gone with a smile on my lips, content that I had seen her once.
She stepped out of the car like she had been sculpted from another world—tall and impossibly graceful, her long waves of chestnut-red hair cascading down her back, catching in the mist like flames dancing in the fog. The cold bit at her pale skin, making her shiver, and I stood there, helplessly mesmerized.A piece of plastic wrap clung to her collarbone, barely visible beneath the delicate lace of her wedding dress—a fresh tattoo, a story I would never know.
That dress... it wasn't revealing, yet it clung to her slender form in a way that made my mind spiral. She was divinity stitched into fabric, the kind of beauty that mocked reality. Perfection, untouchable yet standing right in front of me.
Something inside me broke.
I moved without thinking, pushing through the crowd, drawn forward like a drowning man grasping for air. I needed to be closer. I needed to see her.
She shivered again and turned slightly, murmuring something to one of the bodyguards. Before he could respond, Luciano wordlessly removed his suit jacket and draped it over her shoulders. A practiced gesture. A claim.
Then, a voice from the crowd cut through the moment like a blade.
"Sei solo una cercatrice d'oro!" (You're just a gold digger!)
The energy shifted.
She turned sharply, her movements eerily slow, almost ghostlike. And for the first time, I saw her face.
My breath caught in my throat.
Pale skin, sharp cheekbones, lips stained red like a final kiss before war. But it was her eyes that stopped me—green, haunting, filled with something I couldn't name. Not just exhaustion, not just sadness. Something deeper. Something broken.
And then—she found me.
Her gaze locked onto mine, pinning me in place, stripping me down, peeling me open. She saw me. Not the way people glance at a stranger in passing, but as if she had reached straight into my chest and wrapped her fingers around my soul.
I drowned in that fleeting moment.
A whisper of tears clung to her lashes, catching the glow of the streetlights, refracting every ounce of pain hidden within her. And in them, I saw it—a plea. A silent cry. Save me.
Something primal, desperate, violent surged in my chest. I wanted to tear through the sea of bodies, to take her hand and run. To steal her away, hide her from the world, make her mine.
For the first time that day, my heart wasn't racing. My hands weren't shaking. My nerves weren't clawing at me.
She made me calm.
Then, just as quickly as she had unraveled me, she turned away. She took Luciano's hand, let him lead her inside, and disappeared into the hotel lobby.
And I stood there, lost, knowing—I would never be the same again.

The crowd scattered, but I stood rooted in place, my body unwilling to move, my mind lost in something far beyond exam anxiety. A rush of something electric pulsed through me—not fear, not nerves, but something far more dangerous. I could still see her in my mind, the way the cold kissed her skin, the way her eyes had stripped me bare in a single glance.
"Damien, let's go!" My mother's sharp voice cut through the haze, yanking me back to reality. I forced my legs to move, walking beside her like a puppet on frayed strings. My body obeyed, but my soul remained behind, trapped in that fleeting moment.
Then, abruptly, she stopped. She turned to me, searching my face, her gaze narrowing as if she could see straight into my chest, past flesh and bone, into the reckless truth pounding beneath. And I knew—she saw it. She understood.
Her voice dropped to a whisper, firm and certain. "You will be a great FBI agent. You deserve this. You worked for this." A pause. A shift. Her eyes flicked toward the hotel behind us, toward the place where she had disappeared. "That girl..." Her voice sharpened, laced with something almost pleading. "One day, you'll come back to arrest her husband. You'll be a savior for New York. You'll save us from these corrupt people. You don't need a woman like that. She'll eat your soul alive and spit it onto the pavement."
I should have agreed. I should have nodded, let her words sink in like gospel. But deep down, in the place where logic held no power, I already knew the truth.
If the moment ever came—if fate ever forced me to choose—I would die for that girl without hesitation.