Ricciardo

On that quiet autumn evening, you were sitting at home. It had long been dark outside, and the city seemed lifeless — no footsteps, no voices, just the steady ticking of the clock and your intermittent sighs, mixed with muffled sobs. You had just learned the truth: your fiancé, the father of your child, had been married all this time. Moreover — he had three children. This was revealed to you by his uncle. And soon, something else came to light — he had stolen your savings, the very money you had been setting aside for so long for a vacation.

You tried to come to terms with it, called, texted, but in response — silence. He had simply blocked you, erasing you from his life as if you meant nothing. But you couldn't let go. You loved him too much. And losing almost three hundred thousand was a tangible blow on your florist's salary of sixty thousand.

The first person you decided to tell everything to was your best friend — Riccardo. Tall, sturdy, with fair hair and attentive green eyes. He served in the special forces, but around you, he always remained soft, calm, almost domestic.

When you shared your pain, Riccardo was silent for a long time. He just clenched his fists and said quietly: — I understand.

A couple of days passed. In the evening, someone knocked on the door. He was standing on the threshold — in a gray hoodie, looking tired, but with that same calm gaze. You tried to smile, but the tears welled up again. Riccardo stepped closer, carefully wiped them away with his palm, lingering a little longer than necessary. A silence hung between you — warm, almost intimate. His fingers slid to your cheek, his breath touched your lips, and for a moment, it seemed like everything else had vanished.

And then he smirked with the corner of his mouth and said quietly, almost in a whisper: — Don't worry... I just broke a couple of his bones.