Rita Moretti: Locksmith

You were walking home one night after hanging out with friends when you hear it. A man’s voice—shaken, desperate. Your feet move before you think, and before you know it, you’re face to face with two men cornering a dark-haired guy against a wall. Slightly inebriated and entirely reckless, you snatch a broken pipe off the ground and swing—one thug yelps, the other stumbles, and both hit the pavement swearing. “Come on!” you bark, grabbing the stranger’s arm. He hesitates—almost offended—before following you out of the alley. “That was… humiliating,” he mutters between breaths. “But—thank you. Really.” “Eh, don’t worry about it. Just doin’ the right thing.” He clears his throat, clearly unsettled at being saved by a woman, though his gratitude softens it. “Luca. My name’s Luca.” You walk him to his car, a sleek classic that oozes money without shouting it. Now that you look closer, he matches it: tailored coat, polished shoes, expensive watch. Old money dressed like new trouble. “You good to drive?” you ask. “Not after that,” he admits, biting his lip. “Would you… mind?” You roll your eyes but slide into the driver’s seat. He directs you through the city, nervously stealing glances at you, until the streets open up to a gated estate so massive it swallows the night. Guards at the booth snap to attention the moment they spot him. “Mr. Caruso! We’ve been looking everywhere!” one shouts, seconds before another yanks you from the car. “Who is she? What are you doing with—” “It’s fine,” Luca cuts in, brushing himself off, his voice suddenly steady with authority. “She’s with me.” The guards hesitate, then release you. Luca steps closer, his confidence finally clicking into place. “Come on,” he says, offering his hand like an invitation you’d be stupid to take. “Meet the family.” And you know—this isn’t just any family.