Hunger is not loud at first.
It starts quiet, like a whisper under the skin. A dull ache in the stomach. A heaviness behind the eyes. You tell yourself you can ignore it, that you've survived worse. But when night comes and the city lights glow like they're mocking you, hunger becomes cruel.
It reminds you of everything you lost.
I stood under a flickering streetlight, fingers curled inside the sleeves of my jacket, watching people pass by with places to go. Couples laughing. Cars slowing to pick someone up. Lives still moving forward.
Mine had stopped the day my parents were buried.
I could still remember the house full of relatives. The crying. The prayers. The hands on my shoulders, warm and comforting. I trusted them then. I signed papers without reading too closely. I was too broken to question blood.
By the time I realized what they had done, the accounts were empty. The house was no longer mine. The future my parents worked so hard for had vanished like smoke.
And they told me to be grateful.
My stomach twisted.
I hadn't eaten since yesterday morning. I'd sold almost everything I owned. Pride went first. Then dignity. Tonight, all I had left was desperation.
That's when I saw them.
They walked alone, unhurried, like the city belonged to them. Their coat was clean, expensive. Their posture straight, confident. Not flashy. Just… powerful. The kind of person who didn't need to look over their shoulder.
Rich. Careless. Perfect.
My heart started pounding.
I told myself I'd just threaten them. Take the wallet. Run. I didn't need much. Just enough to eat. Enough to breathe again.
I stepped out of the shadows.
"Hey," I said, forcing my voice steady as I pressed a cold metal object against their side. "Don't scream. Just hand it over."
They stopped walking.
The street went quiet.
Slowly, they turned their head and looked at me.
I froze.
They weren't afraid.
Their eyes were dark, sharp, unreadable. Not shocked. Not angry. Just… curious. Like I was something unexpected they'd found on the street.
My grip tightened. "I'm serious."
"I can see that," they said calmly.
In the blink of an eye, my wrist twisted. Pain exploded up my arm. The metal clattered to the ground. I gasped, knees hitting the pavement before I even realized what happened.
They released me like I was nothing.
I scrambled back, breath shaking, ready to run.
"Stay," they said.
It wasn't loud. It wasn't threatening.
I stayed.
They studied me openly now. "You're starving."
I laughed bitterly. "Congratulations."
"You're not a professional," they continued. "Your stance is wrong. But your reflexes are good."
I stared at them. "…What?"
Instead of calling the police, they reached into their pocket and handed me a card.
"I need a bodyguard."
The world tilted.
"You're insane," I said.
"Possibly," they replied. "But I'm right."
I should have walked away.
I didn't.
That night, I got into a black car with tinted windows. The door locked the moment I sat down. The driver didn't speak. The city lights blurred past like I was leaving one life behind and entering another.
"Who are you?" I asked quietly.
They leaned back, hands folded. "Someone who doesn't like being followed."
The car stopped in front of a massive gated estate. Armed guards stood watch. When we stepped out, they bowed.
Every single one of them.
My blood ran cold.
I followed them inside, heart pounding, senses screaming danger. Corridors stretched endlessly, polished floors reflecting dim lights. This wasn't a house.
It was a fortress.
That's when it hit me.
I hadn't tried to rob a rich person.
I had tried to rob a king.
"The rules are simple," they said as we walked. "You stay close. You listen. You don't betray me."
I swallowed. "And if I do?"
They stopped and turned to face me fully.
Their gaze pinned me in place.
"You won't live long enough to regret it."
Days blurred together after that. Training. Watching. Learning. Gunfire in the distance. Whispers that stopped when I entered a room. Enemies lurking in the shadows.
I almost died on the third night.
A blade missed my throat by inches. I reacted on instinct, protecting them before I even thought about it. When it was over, blood dripped from my cheek, my hands shaking.
They approached me slowly.
Without warning, they reached up and wiped the blood away with their thumb.
"You didn't hesitate," they said softly.
My breath caught.
"Why?" I asked.
Their eyes darkened. "Because you belong here."
Later that night, they stood beside me on the balcony, city lights glittering below like fallen stars.
"I know who destroyed your life," they said.
My heart slammed against my ribs.
"I can give them to you," they continued. "Every last one.
I turned to them, hands clenched. "What do you want in return?"
Their gaze lingered on me, heavy, possessive.
"Loyalty," they said. "Your silence. Your bodyguard's life."
Then, quietly, "Yourself."
In that moment, I understood something terrifying.
I hadn't been hired.
I had been claimed.
And the deeper I fell into their world, the more I realized—
the most dangerous thing about the mafia wasn't the violence.
It was being wanted by the person who ruled it.