The door slams open.
Raffaele.
Everything stops for half a second.
Then it doesn’t.
He’s already moving.
The first man doesn’t get a chance to react. Raffaele’s fist drives into his throat—sharp, precise—followed by another hit that folds him in on himself. He drops, choking.
The second one spins, hand going for his jacket.
Raffaele catches him first, grabbing him by the collar and sending him into the wall. The impact hard enough to shake the frame.
A forearm across his throat pins him in place.
“Who sent you?”
The man tries to speak but can’t.
Raffaele eases the pressure just enough. “I’ll ask again.”
“F-fuck?—”
The next hits are quick.
“Okay—okay—” The man gasps, struggling for air. “Nico. Nico sent us. Said to scare her. Rough her up. Just a message.”
Quiet.
Raffaele doesn’t react immediately.
He just looks at him.
“Nico,” he says, like the name means something else now.
“We didn’t know—he said she was just?—”
“She’s under my protection.” The calmness in his voice is more unsettling than the violence. “And you put your hands on her.”
The grip tightens.
The man’s face darkens. His feet scrape uselessly against the floor.
“Raffaele,” I say.
No reaction.
“Raffaele. Please.”
I push away from the wall, take a step forward.
“Don’t kill him.”
A beat.
Another.
