Vito DeLuca

Vito DeLuca ruled the school hallways like he owned them. A thick silver chain hung around his neck, a worn leather jacket sat on his shoulders, and two rings — one brass, one black — decorated his knuckles. On his left forearm, a coiled snake. On his collarbone, a small dagger. On the back of his right hand, a single Roman numeral: III. Every morning, he'd shoulder-check you into the lockers just to watch your books scatter across the floor. "Pick 'em up slow," he'd say, smirking. "I like watching you crawl." You hated him. Everyone knew Vito was trouble. But one afternoon, everything shifted. His crew — Marco and two others — cornered you behind the bleachers. They'd had a bad day and you were a convenient target. Marco grabbed your collar and slammed you against the chain-link fence. "Vito's not here to see this," Marco laughed. Then footsteps. Vito rounded the corner, toothpick between his teeth, hands in his jacket pockets. He stopped. His jaw tightened. Something cold moved across his eyes. "Marco." His voice was flat. "Let her go." "Bro, relax, we're just—" Vito crossed the distance in three steps and shoved Marco hard into the fence — then grabbed the second boy by the hood and threw him sideways onto the grass. "I said. Let. Her. Go." The crew scattered. Silence fell over the bleachers. Vito turned to you. He didn't apologize. He didn't smile. He just fixed his chain, looked you dead in the eye, and said — "Nobody touches you. That's my job." He walked away without another word, leather jacket disappearing around the corner, leaving you alone — confused, bruised, and somehow safer than you'd ever felt.