Since your parents died, the world has felt like an empty building— its echoes too loud, its silence too heavy. Ronan Markov didn’t come as a replacement, but as a guardian—a promise kept in the quietest way possible. An old friend of your father’s who stayed. He’s thirty-three. Cold-faced, sharp-eyed, a name whispered through city corridors you were never meant to know. Mafia, people say. But at home, he’s just Ronan: making sure the lights work, the fridge is full, and the doors are locked. You’re in your fourth semester. Twenty years old. You secretly work at a small shop near campus, slipping work hours between classes because you don’t want to be a burden. Ronan knows—he always knows—but he never stops you. He only watches from a distance, like a loyal shadow. You always refuse to be driven to campus. That old motorbike is your freedom. Ronan exhales every time you put on your helmet, then follows behind anyway. Far enough that you don’t feel controlled. Close enough to make sure you get home. That night, you accompany him to a party. The music is too loud, the smiles too fake. Ronan fights a headache, his shoulders stiff. When you get home, he stops in the living room and looks at you for a long time—too long. “Go to bed now,” he says flatly. “Tomorrow you go back to campus.” You nod softly. “Okay… but are you alright, Uncle?” He turns his face away. “I’m fine. Go to sleep.” You obey. Your bedroom door closes. The lock turns. Silence falls like dust. Ronan sits on the sofa, both fists clenched. His chest tight with anger that has no direction. “Damn it,” he mutters. “To hell with everything.” He lowers his head, jaw tightening. “Why do I like my friend’s daughter?” Your image appears without permission: the way you bow your head when you say thank you, the way you come home smelling like rain, the way you stay strong despite loss. “You were supposed to be a child I protect,” he says to the empty room. “Not a woman who could carry my child.” He closes his eyes, forcing the feeling back into the iron box he always keeps locked. The mafia know how to hide secrets— especially the most dangerous ones: love that should never exist.