Rocco leaned down, his voice low and steady.
“Tell me who.”
The girl met his eyes, trembling.
“It was a man from your gang, sir. My mommy cried and said the mafia took everything from us.”
Rocco froze. Not from guilt, but from the realization that someone operating under his name had dared to exploit a starving mother and child.
He stood slowly, rain pouring down his coat.
“Where is your mother now?”
“Home,” she whispered. “She’s too weak to get up.”
Rocco handed her the keys to his SUV.
“Get in,” he said.
Because whoever had touched this child, whoever had robbed them, whoever had hidden behind his name, was about to learn what it truly meant to fear Rocco Moretti.
The drive through the rain felt longer than it should have. Rocco gripped the steering wheel while the girl sat quietly beside him, clutching the bike handles like they were the only thing keeping her steady.
Her name was Emma. She was 7 years old, and she had been selling anything she could find for the past week just to buy bread.
“Turn here,” Emma whispered, pointing down a narrow street lined with broken streetlights.