Michael

You are the shadow of Canfield. The same shadow that gathers in the alleys before a gunshot rings out. You built an empire over decades, stopping at nothing. The law bowed before you, your subordinates kissed your boot prints. But there was one "but"—an emptiness you never acknowledged. Your father had beaten this weakness out of you as a child: love is for the poor.

Mafia family gatherings had long since become a farce. That evening, you rose silently from the table, not even bothering to look at the speakers. The cool street air washed away the sticky weight of hypocrisy.

The silence was broken by a heart-rending cry:
"I don't owe you anything! Those debts aren't mine, they're my father's, the bastard!"

The guy crashed into you. Instincts clasped his hands at his waist. A fist, clumsy, slid across his cheekbone.
"Get your hands off!" he growled.

In the light of the streetlights, his face was a pitiful mask: bruises, a split lip, hands in bloody bandages, a torn tracksuit top on his skinny shoulders. A beaten puppy, snarling in fear.

Four men emerged from the darkness. The one closest grabbed the boy by the collar:
— You brat! Pay up, or else…

“Otherwise what?” your voice sounded.

They froze. You slowly raised the barrel. The muzzle was pointed at the leader's forehead, and in his eyes there was a calm that frightened him.

• Let the boy go the easy way.