When the Fool Heals the Mafia

Amara's POV

The outskirts of City C always smelled like rain, even when the sky was dry. At exactly ten at night, I was walking home under the quiet glow of the streetlamps, the wind nipping at my ankles. My breath clouded in the air like smoke.

I had just come from the mini stop down the main road. Honestly, I was supposed to be asleep by now already curled under my blanket with a book in hand. But once again, I forgot to eat dinner. Not that it was a new habit. Hunger crept in around nine-thirty, and instead of ignoring it like usual, I grabbed my oversized hoodie the one that swallowed most of my face and pulled on my worn-out jogging pants.

Nothing new. Just me and my late-night cravings.

The mini-stop was a thirty-minute walk from my rented house, but I didn't mind. It was quiet. Peaceful. No cars honking. No people yelling. Just silence and the occasional sound of a street cat knocking something over in the alley.

I only bought the essentials.... instant ramen, an egg sandwich, and my comfort drink a bottle of lemon juice.

That should've been the end of it.

But, of course, fate always had other plans.

On my way back, just as I passed by a narrow alley most people didn't even glance at hidden, forgotten, like the city's scar......I heard it.

Pop. Pop-pop.

Not firecrackers.

Gunshots.

I froze. My feet stayed planted on the cracked concrete as the night exploded into chaos. Bullets sliced the air like angry bees. Concrete shattered. Metal sparked.

A firefight. A real one. Like something straight out of a gangster movie. Except this wasn't a movie.

This was happening. Right in front of me.

One of the bullets flew too close. I flinched, the lemon juice slipping from my fingers and smashing onto the pavement.

And then, before I could blink, someone tackled me from the side.

Strong arms. A heavy body. The air whooshed out of my lungs as I hit the ground, my back scraping the cold asphalt.

"Miss..." the man on top of me gritted out, voice thick with pain. "Run to a safe place. Now."

I looked up at him. He was bleeding.

The guy maybe in his early thirties, military haircut, olive-toned skin, had taken the hit that was meant for me. He collapsed next to me…one hand pressed tightly against his side where blood was pouring out.

I blinked. My mind stalled. Logic told me to run. To hide. To move. But I just stood there, breath shallow, like the noise had short-circuited every part of my brain.

Footsteps thundered behind me.

And then came the voice.

Cold. Measured. Dangerous.

"Jerald, are you okay?"

I turned. Slowly. And saw him.

The man who spoke looked like he belonged to another world entirely. A tailored black coat. Impossibly sharp eyes. The kind of face you'd remember even if you saw it in a crowd. Something about him screamed with authority. Power.

The man beside him dropped to his knees, checking the injured guy's wound.

"Mr. Walton, we need to bring him in. He's not going to make it otherwise."

Mr. Walton.

The name rang in my ears like a gunshot. It fit him. Short. Sharp. Absolute.

"Damn it," Mr. Walton muttered under his breath.

They were moving. Fast. Jerald was lifted between them, blood smearing their sleeves. They turned to leave. My heart thudded.

I didn't know them. Didn't they owe anything.

But...

He saved me.

He didn't have to. But he did.

"Wait," I said, my voice quiet but firm.

They stopped.

Three pairs of eyes turned to me. Waiting.

I swallowed the knot in my throat.

"I can help you. Follow me."

No hesitation. No explanation. I just turned and walked.

It was their choice to follow.

And they did.

We cut across blocks, avoiding the well-lit streets. I scanned the area, instincts sharp. When I was sure no one had tailed us, I opened the door to my rented house and let them in.

The moment the door shut behind us, I was already moving.

"Bring him to the bathroom," I ordered, heading straight there. "The floor's easier to clean. And I don't want blood on my furniture."

They hesitated.

I turned.

"Unless you'd prefer him bleeding out in my hallway?"

Mr. Walton's gaze narrowed, slicing into me.

"Who are you?"

His voice was low. Unforgiving.

I stared back.

"No one. Just a passerby who didn't die because he took the bullet. So, I'm returning the favor."

Still, he didn't move.

The other man.... tall, older, scars along his jawline glanced at Mr. Walton.

 "Boss, he won't make it."

"Then bring him in if you still want to save him," I snapped.

I didn't wait for a reply.

In my room, I shoved my bed aside and pulled out the wooden box I never thought I'd use again. Inside: an emergency kit. Not fancy. But enough.

When I came back, Jerald was sprawled on the bathroom floor, his blood seeping into the cracks between the tiles.

The bulb above flickered, casting a cold, yellow light.

I knelt beside him, pulling on gloves.

"Who the hell is she?" the man by the door whispered.

"I don't know," Mr. Walton murmured back. "Don't say anything."

I opened my bag. Gloves. Scalpel. Forceps. Thread. The basics. I could work with this.

Jerald opened his eyes for a second, breath shallow.

"W-Who... are you?"

I didn't answer his question. 

"Breathe. Talk later."

He tried to move. I gently held his head down.

"Stay still. One wrong move and I hit an artery."

His shirt was already soaked, so I cut through it. Blood oozed out slowly. My hands moved on their own. Fast. Careful. Exact.

I worked in silence, cleaning around the wound, and slicing carefully to find the shrapnel. Not a single wasted movement.

He twitched.

Not violently, but enough for her to notice. His breath hitched, sharp and uneven, like he was teetering on the edge of blacking out and choosing not to.

I didn't pause. I couldn't afford to. My hands stayed moving, sliding the forceps in and gripping the embedded shard.

But something about the way he was fighting, even in the haze of pain, pulled at me.

Brooks muttered, "That's not something you learn on the streets."

Mr. Walton didn't reply. But I could feel his stare.

"You're lucky," " I told Jerald, extracting it. "Half a centimeter and you were gone."

His body jerked.

I pulled the metal out.

Jerald's whole body flinched. But I didn't stop.

Clamp. Thread. Stitch.

The only sounds were the buzz of the light, his strained breathing, and the wet pull of needle through skin.

Finally, I tied off the last stitch and wrapped his chest tight. Sweat dripped down my neck. I wiped my hands with a clean towel and stood.

Jerald opened his eyes. 

"You... saved me."

I looked at him calmly. 

"I just didn't let you die. Yet."

Then I turned to face the two men.

"You can talk now."

They didn't say a word.

Until Brooks whispered, "Who are you?"

I gave him a half-smile. Not friendly. Not kind. Just a smirk.

"No one you were expecting."

And with that, I walked past them and into the hallway.

Behind me, I heard Mr. Walton says lowly.

"Find out everything about her."

When I came back to my room to return the kit, my phone suddenly rang.

A number that rarely ever called me but one that was burned into my memory.

I didn't even hesitate. I answered it immediately.

"Grandfather?" I said, placing the phone to my ear.

"Amara, my nieta," came the familiar, warm voice of my grandfather, Victor Musk. As always, his voice held a strange comfort.

"How are you, Grandpa?" I asked softly, but then I heard him cough....hard.

"I'm fine, nieta... but you need to return now. It's been a while. It's time to go back."

Hearing those words made my heart pause. A part of me had expected this moment... but not this soon.

His illness must be getting worse.

There was a long silence on my end before I finally whispered, "Sí, abuelo."

That was all I could manage.

I hung up quietly and walked back into the living room.

There were three complete strangers still inside my small, rented house.

Jerald was lying on the sofa, pale and breathing hard, the gunshot wound still fresh.

I sighed and headed to my tiny kitchen, opened the fridge, and grabbed a bottle of water.

"I'm not really good at entertaining people," I said plainly, cracking the cap open.

 "So, if you need anything, feel free to get it yourself. And I'm not kicking you out either, since...."

I took a sip from my bottle and leaned against the counter.

The guy named Brooks by the window finally hung up and turned to me. 

"Do you happen to have a spare room?" he asked.

"Hmm... right side. There's a small room. Only one person can sleep there. But I've got some extra bedding if one of you wants to stay in the living room."

"Got it," he nodded. 

"We'll handle that. But uh..." he scratched the back of his head, "can we borrow clothes?"

I blinked.

Borrow clothes?

I looked at them.

But then I remembered.....I always buy from the men's section anyway.

Without saying a word, I turned around and walked back into my room. A few minutes later, I came back with a stack of clothes in my arms.

"Here," I muttered, dropping them on the dining table. "Use what fits."

It was only now sinking in...

My normal, quiet life was about to change.

First a firefight.

Back to the place I left behind.

Back to where everything began.