Chapter 1: Don't worry, I won't let anyone hurt you

Sophia's POV

The apartment door slams open so hard it bounces off the wall. I nearly drop the can of tomato sauce I'm opening for dinner.

Mom stumbles in, her makeup running and reeking of cheap wine. But she's not alone.

A man in an expensive coat follows her inside. He's older, maybe fifty-something, with slicked-back silver hair and brown eyes that make my stomach turn the second they land on me.

"Sophia baby, look what Mommy brought home!" Mom waves at him like he's some kind of prize. "This is Vincent. He's from the Torrino family, and he's gonna take real good care of us!"

I set the can down and wipe my hands on a dish towel. "Hi."

"Hello there, Sophia." His voice is smooth. Too smooth. "Your mother tells me you're a good girl. Very obedient."

The way he says 'obedient' makes me want to throw up. I step back toward the stove.

"Mom, I'm not hungry anymore. I should go do homework."

"Don't be rude!" Mom snaps, suddenly sharp despite being drunk. "Vincent's a busy man. He made time just for us."

Vincent smiles, but his eyes stay cold. "Seventeen. That's a good age. Back in my day, girls knew how to appreciate what men could do for their families."

He moves closer, studying me like I'm something in a store window. I can smell his cologne mixed with cigar smoke.

Mom's too busy checking her reflection in the microwave to notice anything.

Vincent pulls out a thick roll of cash and drops it on our coffee table. "Carla, honey, this place needs some work. Take this. Buy yourself something nice."

Mom's eyes go wide. She practically dives for the money, counting it with shaking hands. I watch her face light up and my heart sinks.

"Vincent, you're amazing!" She's already shoving the bills into her purse. "You know what? I'm gonna run down and grab us some champagne. We should celebrate!"

"Mom, don't go. It's freezing out there."

"Stop acting like a baby, Sophia. You're seventeen, for crying out loud." She's already putting on her coat. "Be nice to Vincent. Learn what it means to be grateful."

My mom only sees dollar signs. She doesn't give a damn about how I feel. But this guy... the way he's looking at me makes my skin crawl.

"Go ahead, Carla. Take your time." Vincent's voice gets softer. "I'd like to chat with Sophia. Get to know her better."

Mom's already halfway out the door. "Don't wait up!"

The door slams shut. Suddenly the apartment feels like a cage.

Vincent's whole act drops the second we're alone. The polite smile disappears, and something ugly takes its place.

"Just you and me now, princess." He loosens his tie and shrugs off his coat. "Your mom owes me a lot of money. But I think we can work out a different kind of payment."

I back against the wall, my heart pounding. "You can't do this. I'll call the cops."

He laughs. "Cops? Sweetheart, half the police in Boston are on my payroll. And besides..." He steps closer. "You really think your mother would pick you over all that cash?"

The question hits me like a slap because I already know the answer.

Vincent lunges forward and grabs my wrist. "Come on, be a good girl like Mommy said."

Something inside me snaps. I'm not letting this happen.

I grab the heavy glass ashtray from the coffee table and swing it at his head as hard as I can. Blood streams down his face and he screams.

"You little bitch!"

I don't stick around to see how bad I hurt him. I run.

Down the stairs, through the lobby, out into the freezing Boston night wearing nothing but thin pajamas and bare feet. The cold hits me like a punch, but I keep running until my lungs burn and my legs give out.

I end up in an alley between two buildings, hugging my knees and shivering so hard my teeth chatter. I can't go home. Vincent might still be there. And even if he's not, what would I tell Mom? That her new sugar daddy tried to rape me? She'd probably blame me for screwing up her big score.

I have nowhere to go. No one to call. No one who'd believe me anyway.

That's when I hear footsteps.

A guy emerges from the shadows, and my heart nearly stops. He's tall, maybe eighteen or nineteen, and he's covered in blood. Fresh blood. He's carrying a baseball bat that's also stained red.

When he sees me, he freezes.

"Shit," he mutters. His voice is rough, Boston accent thick. "What the hell are you doing out here dressed like that?"

I press myself against the wall. "Stay away from me."

But he does the opposite of what I expect. He stops walking and actually steps back, setting the bloody bat against the wall.

"Hey, you're crying." His voice gets gentler. "What happened?"

He reaches into his jacket and pulls out some crumpled napkins, holding them out. His hands are beat up, but the gesture is surprisingly gentle.

"I can't go home," I whisper.

"Why not?"

I look up at him through my tears. Even covered in someone else's blood, he feels safer than Vincent. Maybe because he's not trying to get closer. Maybe because he looks as lost as I feel.

"I had a fight with my mom's boyfriend. A really bad one."

His green eyes narrow. "He hurt you?"

"We just... disagreed about something important." I can't tell this stranger the truth. Not yet.

He studies my face, then takes off his leather jacket and holds it out. "You're gonna freeze to death."

The jacket is warm and smells like motor oil and cigarettes. There are blood stains on it, but I don't care.

"I live about ten minutes from here," he says after a pause. "You can crash at my place tonight. Just until you figure things out."

"You don't even know me. Why would you help?"

He looks at me with those intense green eyes. "Because girls crying in alleys shouldn't be ignored."

As we walk through the empty streets, I learn his name is Marco Romano. People on the streets seem to know who he is. When I tell him my last name is Milano, something shifts in his expression.

"Italian," he says.

"Is that a problem?"

"Tonight, everything's a problem. But that's not one of them."

His apartment is small but clean. Just a bed, a couch, and a little kitchen. He points to the bed.

"You take the bed. I'll crash on the couch. Bathroom's right there."

"I can't take your bed."

"Don't argue. You need real sleep."

His phone rings and he steps onto the fire escape to answer it. I can hear pieces of the conversation through the thin walls.

"Marco, is that Italian bastard dead?"

"Close enough. Don't call again tonight. I've got a situation here."

When he comes back inside, he sees the fear in my eyes.

"You heard that?"

I nod. "The Italian part... does that mean me?"

Marco sits on the edge of the couch, his face serious. "Listen, I don't know your story, and you don't know mine. But whatever went down tonight, we're even. And as long as you're here, I won't let anyone hurt you. That's a promise."

I look at this stranger who's covered in blood, who gets phone calls about dead people, but whose eyes hold more honesty than I've seen all day.

Maybe I've escaped one monster just to run toward another kind of danger. But at least tonight, in this cold and scary world, I'm not alone.