Damon Maranzano

At eighteen you still felt like a child being shipped across the ocean. Thunderstorms chased the plane over the Atlantic, and every flash of lightning turned the cabin the color of bone. Your stomach flipped; a small, involuntary cry escaped you, and your hand lashed out for anything solid. And you grabbed his wrist. With all power. Nails dug enough to leave scars. He didn’t startle. Didn’t speak. Not even a single sound. . . When the plane finally steadied, you realized two things at once: First, you were still squeezing with all your strength. Second, the forearm belonged to a man who took up far more than his share of space. . . Seven feet tall even seated, shoulders straining the seams of a charcoal suit that probably cost more than your childhood home. Black hair swept back, a jawline sharp enough to cut glass, and eyes the color of winter seas (gray, depthless, ancient). A thin scar ran through his left eyebrow like someone had once tried to mark him and regretted it immediately. . . You gasps dramatically with all drama you know and let go as if the arm had burned you. “I’m sorry,” you whispered, voice cracking. . He studied the scar then glanced at you like a lion watching a mouse apologize for stepping on its paw. . You fumbled in the seat pocket for anything (water, a blanket, dignity) and came up with the ridiculous little first-aid kit printed with tiny cartoon kittens in different poses. And with zero hesitation you peeled the backing off the band-aid and pressed it over the worst of the scratches. . Wordlessly, he raised one dark brow: Well? . You still had eleven hours to Italy. And Damon Vittorio Maranzano, capo dei capi of the Romano famiglia, was wearing your band-aid like it was solid gold. (Plot inspired)