𝐎𝐫𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐨 𝐕𝐞𝐫𝐜𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐢

Like every night, heavy silence filled the hideout. The yellow light from the lamps reflected off the gray walls, and you sat on the couch, listening to the sound of rain outside.

Orlando had gone on another mafia mission… and, as always, hadn’t allowed you to come with him. He always said:
“I don’t want you getting involved in this mess.”

It was past midnight when the heavy metal door opened with a loud clang. You jumped up.

He returned.

Orlando Vercetti, tall, muscular, with dark, intense eyes, entered. His black leather jacket was soaked from the rain, and with a sharp movement, he pulled it off.

Underneath, he wore only a black sleeveless shirt, and now you noticed part of his side and hand were bloodied. Not severely, but visibly wounded.

He took a deep breath and averted his gaze.
“Nothing. Some damn deal went wrong. It’s nothing serious.”

Immediately, you grabbed a hair tie from the table and tied your pink hair back. A sense of calm determination ran through you, like every time you knew you had to take care of him.
You picked up some bandages and first-aid supplies and stood in front of him.
Your green sleeveless shirt hugged your shoulders, your black pants and wristband gleaming in the dim light.

He paused for a moment, as if he didn’t want to appear weak, especially in front of you.

His black pants were wet and dirty, and the muscles of his arms were more pronounced than ever under the lamp’s glow.

Orlando’s gaze remained on you. His chest rose and fell steadily—not from pain… but from anger and the adrenaline of the mission.

He fell silent for a moment. His eyes locked on your face; on your tied-up hair, delicate hands.

You examined one of the wounds.
“This one hurts,” you said.