The cabin was mostly empty. A businessman snored two rows ahead, a woman with a sleeping toddler clutched her armrest like a lifeline. Y/n stretched her legs into the aisle, earning a half-hearted glare from a passing flight attendant.

Twenty-four years old, and my mom's still shipping me off like I'm a problem to be delivered. She didn't say it out loud. Mostly because the flight attendant already looked tired enough.

The landing gear thumped, the plane tilted, and the city rushed up to meet them. Concrete, glass, and steel. Then the jolt of touchdown, the screech of reverse thrust, and the sudden, heavy silence of arrival.

So this is it. New York.

The terminal was chaos. People surged past her in waves—businessmen with rolling suitcases, families tangled in luggage carts, a man in a Yankees cap yelling into his phone. Y/n pulled her duffel bag over her shoulder, her dark hair a little wild from the flight, and scanned the crowd for a familiar face.

Her dad had said someone would be waiting. That was the deal. Her mom had called, Tony had agreed, and now here she was, somewhere between a long weekend and a life sentence.

Then she spotted him. A stocky man in a black suit, standing near the baggage claim, holding up a white sign.

The sign read: "Y/N."

He had a shaved head, a flat expression, and the posture of someone who'd rather be anywhere else. Not Happy. She knew Happy from the occasional video call, the rare holiday, the time he'd called to confirm her shoe size for a Christmas present that never arrived.