“They’re attacking my mom!” —When the motorcyclists heard the reason, they sped off.

The afternoon weighed heavily on the nearly empty supermarket parking lot. The asphalt still held the day’s heat, and the sky was turning orange and violet. A group of motorcyclists had just turned off their engines in front of a row of closed shops. The silence after the roar of the motorcycles always seemed strange to Dante, as if someone had suddenly turned down the volume of the world.

Dante took off his helmet and ran his hand through his short, dark hair. Thirty-eight years old, tattooed arms, the hard gaze of someone who had seen too much… and a permanent weariness understood only by those who had tried to turn their lives around from the very bottom. He covered his half-lit cigarette when he heard hurried footsteps.

A girl appeared running from the parking lot entrance.

She wore a dusty green dress, her knees were scraped, and her face was streaked with tears. She ran as if the ground were crumbling behind her.

“Please, help me!” she cried, her voice breaking. “They’re… they’re attacking my mom!”

The five motorcyclists froze. The echo of those words hung in the air louder than any engine.

Dante reacted first. He stood up immediately, his heart pounding in his chest like when he was young and went out to fight without thinking.

“Calm down, calm down, breathe,” he said, crouching down to her level. “Where’s your mom, little one? Tell me exactly where.”

The girl pointed with a trembling finger towards a side street behind the supermarket.

—There… back there… where there are no cameras. They pushed her towards a car… I… I ran…

His hands were trembling so much that Dante had to hold them.

“How many are there?” he insisted, his voice low but tense. “How many men did you see?”

“Two… I think,” she stammered. “One grabbed her arm and the other opened the car door.”

Dante stood up. His eyes, dark and marked by years of mistakes, hardened.

He turned to his group and didn’t have to shout.

—Everyone. Motorcycle running. We don’t let anyone touch a woman in front of us.

The men didn’t ask any questions. In a matter of seconds, the parking lot roared again with the sound of engines. The girl looked at the motorcycles in fear, but Dante approached and handed her his helmet.

—Come with me. You’re getting in with me, okay? Hold on tight to my jacket, I’m not going to let go.

She nodded, wiping her tears with the back of her hand. She clumsily climbed onto Dante’s motorcycle and clung to his back with desperate force. Dante had never had children, never thought himself capable, but in that moment he felt a different weight: this little girl depended entirely on him.

The side street was almost deserted. A couple of streetlights flickered, casting long shadows on the graffiti-covered walls. Dante parked first, carefully helped Lucía out, and moved forward slowly, listening for any noise.

Nobody was in sight.

“Are you sure this is it?” one of the motorcyclists asked, scanning the metal gates, the garbage containers, and the badly parked cars.

Lucia nodded, her throat dry.

“They were… in the back,” she whispered. “Where there are no cameras.”

Dante clicked his tongue and pointed with his hand.

—Surround the area. Two on each side. Nobody enters, nobody leaves.

His men scattered into the alleyways. He stayed with the girl. He could feel her ragged breathing beside him.

“Hey, look at me,” he asked, leaning in slightly. “You’re going to be with me, okay? I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”

She tried to smile, but only managed a crooked expression.

A few seconds later, one of the motorcyclists came running back from the end of the alley.

—Dante! I found a bag lying around.

She was carrying a light-colored leather bag with broken handles. The girl saw it and let out a stifled scream.

“It’s my mom’s!” she exclaimed, running towards him. “That’s her purse! She was carrying it when we left the store!”

Dante picked up the bag carefully, as if it were something fragile. Inside were a wallet, a broken mirror, and a cell phone that was turned off.

“Everything indicates they put her in a car,” said one of the motorcyclists, observing the fresh tire marks near the container. “They left quickly.”

Every second that passed felt like a stone.

Dante took off his leather jacket and put it over Lucia’s shoulders. The afternoon chill was already seeping in through the street, but he didn’t mind.

“Listen, Lucia,” he said, using her name for the first time. “I need you to remember. Before those men showed up, did your mother say anything? Did she complain about anyone, mention anyone who was following her?”

Lucia squeezed her eyes shut, trying to sort out her memories.

“We were leaving the store…” he murmured. “She said she didn’t like the way a man was looking at her from inside… that she’d seen him before… and then… then another one appeared and they pushed her toward the car. I… I just ran…”

Dante took a deep breath. That didn’t sound like a random robbery. It sounded like something planned.

Another of the motorcyclists returned, waving something in his hand.

—I found a wallet next to the dumpster. It’s not hers.

Dante opened it. There were cards, documents… and a business card that caught his eye.

It was from a large company. Bright logo, elegant address, the name of an executive.

Lucia recognized her immediately.

“My mom works there,” she said, pointing to the logo. “She’s a manager.”

Dante felt a pressure in his chest. This wasn’t just an attempted robbery. It was something bigger: revenge, threats… something planned against a woman who surely knew too much.

“We’re still looking,” he ordered. “We’re not leaving here without her.”

Just as they were moving toward the next alley, a sound cut through the air. A muffled, distant cry, almost swallowed by the walls. It wasn’t a cat, nor a door slamming. It was a groan of pain.

Dante did not wait.

“That way,” he whispered, running towards the narrowest alley.

The stacked boxes collapsed as they passed. Lucia, disobeying the order to stay behind, ran a few meters ahead, with another of the motorcyclists watching over her.

As they turned the corner, they saw a metal door ajar. A faint yellow light emanated from within. Then, another groan.

“Behind me,” Dante ordered.

He kicked the door and went in.

It was a small, abandoned warehouse. Peeling walls, a couple of old shelves, and a single lamp hanging from the ceiling. In the middle of the place, a woman was trying to get up from the floor, breathing heavily. Her blouse was torn, she had several cuts on her arms, and her face was red from blows. Two men were arguing nearby, agitated.

“I told you it was better to do it quickly,” one of them said. “We don’t have time!”

“And I told you we have to wait for the call,” the other replied, looking at his cell phone. “If they find out we let her go…”

They didn’t finish the sentence.

The sound of Dante’s boots and those of his companions filled the place.

“Hey!” one of them shouted when he saw them. “Back off or…!”

He managed to grab a metal pipe, but Dante was already advancing toward him with firm steps. He didn’t shout, he didn’t insult. He looked up and issued an order that brooked no argument:

—They’re letting her go. Now.

The men hesitated. They saw the leather vests, the tattoos, the number of boots by the door. One of them, the one with the pole, jumped anyway, blinded by adrenaline.

Dante dodged the first blow by inches, grabbed the other man’s wrist, and shoved him against the wall with superhuman strength. The pipe fell with a thud. The other attacker tried to run toward the back door, but the other motorcyclists had already blocked his path.

There was no long fight.

In a matter of seconds, both were subdued on the ground, their hands tied behind their backs, one of them spitting insults through his teeth, the other trembling.

Lucía slipped between the adults’ legs and ran towards the woman.

“Mom!” he cried, falling to his knees beside her. “Mom, it’s me, I’m here.”

The woman took a few seconds to react. When she recognized the voice, she clung to it with all the strength she had left.

—Lucía… my little girl… —she whispered, finally bursting into tears.

Dante approached slowly. He saw the bruises on her neck, the marks on her wrists, the look in her eyes, a mixture of fear and relief. It was clear she had defended herself with what she had, but her body wasn’t enough.

“Relax,” he said, lowering his voice. “They’re not going to touch you anymore. You’re safe.”

She looked up. For the first time, she truly saw the man standing there: rugged, tattooed, with an old scar on his eyebrow and that strange mix of toughness and calm. He didn’t look like a movie hero, but she had never felt so protected before.

“Who… who are you?” she asked between sobs.

“Just someone who happened to be passing by,” he replied. “And who can’t stand to see a little girl crying for her mother.”

Lucia looked at him as if he were something between myth and reality.

The police arrived minutes later, alerted by one of the motorcyclists who had called from outside. Upon entering, they saw the expensive handbag lying on the floor, the documents, and the signs of a struggle. The officers quickly realized it wasn’t a simple attempted robbery.

The woman, whose name was Claudia Martín, explained between pauses that she had been receiving anonymous emails and strange calls for weeks. A disgruntled employee, fired for internal fraud, accused her of ruining his life. She never thought he would dare to do something like that.

“He said he was going to make me pay someday,” she whispered, still trembling. “I reported him, I changed my routines, but… I never thought it would go this far.”

One of the attackers, the one who was still cursing, shouted:

“This is all your fault! If you hadn’t opened your mouth, I’d still have a job!”

The officer silenced him with a shove.

Dante clenched his jaw. He knew that hatred; he had seen it in the neighborhoods where he grew up, in the eyes of those who preferred to blame the world instead of taking responsibility for what they had done.

Lucía didn’t leave his side. At times she clung to Dante’s jacket as if it were some kind of shield. He adjusted it on her shoulders, handling it with a gentleness that contrasted sharply with his appearance.

Claudia got up with the help of a paramedic and limped over to where the two of them were. Her face was swollen, but her eyes were shining with grateful tears.

“I’m speechless,” she said, her voice breaking. “I didn’t know if I’d ever see my daughter again. If you hadn’t been there…”

“We just did the right thing,” Dante replied, shrugging. “Anyone would have helped.”

“No,” she replied firmly. “Not just anyone. Many would have looked the other way.”

She looked him in the eyes, as if engraving his face in her memory.

“What’s your name?” she asked, addressing him for the first time in a friendly way.

—Dante.

She repeated the name in a low voice, as if she wanted to keep it to herself. Then she rummaged in her purse, now returned by one of the police officers, and pulled out a crumpled checkbook.

“I know this doesn’t repay what you did…” he said, typing hurriedly. “But please, accept it.”

Dante immediately shook his head.

—I didn’t do it for money.

“I know,” she smiled wearily. “That’s precisely why you deserve it. It’s not payment, it’s gratitude. And gratitude, when it’s sincere, isn’t something you refuse.”

He hesitated, looking at the paper in his hand. He didn’t want to see the amount. He folded it and put it in his jacket, more to avoid further argument than anything else.

Their hands touched for a second longer than usual. Their eyes met, and something gentle, unexpected, passed between them. It wasn’t a fleeting movie romance. It was something simpler: the profound recognition of someone who had almost lost everything and someone who, without knowing why, had given everything without asking for anything in return.

When the assailants were put into the patrol car and the sirens faded away, the alley fell silent again. The wind rustled a piece of paper on the ground. The city lights began to come on.

Lucia hugged Dante once more, as if she didn’t want to let go.

—Thank you for bringing my mom here —she whispered against his chest.

Dante swallowed hard. He’d seen a lot in his life: bar fights, car accidents, friends who didn’t live to old age. But few things had shaken him as much as that little girl running toward him in the middle of the parking lot, her voice aching.

“You were the brave one, shorty,” he replied, clumsily ruffling her hair. “If you hadn’t gone to get help…”

Claudia approached, watching the scene with a mixture of tenderness and surprise.

“You guys showed up when we needed you most,” he said. “I’ll never forget it. I really hope to see you again, Dante.”

He wasn’t much of a talker. He just nodded. But there was something in his eyes that said more than any words could.

The motorcycle engines started up again one by one. The roar rose in the cold night air. Lucía and her mother stood at the entrance to the alley, embracing, watching the group ride away.

Dante, in the front, glanced briefly in the rearview mirror. He saw the little girl wave her hand, still wrapped in her jacket. He returned the gesture with a slight nod.

As the city receded into the distance and the wind whipped against his face, he reflected on how fragile everything can be. He thought about how many times he himself had been part of the danger in the past… and how, without quite knowing why, that afternoon he found himself in the opposite situation.

Sometimes —he thought— fate puts the right people in the right place at the right time.

You never know who can change your life with just one cry for help.

Nor who you will end up protecting with your soul, even if she doesn’t share your blood, even if you barely know her, even if you only know her name… and who ran towards you, trembling, saying to you:

“They are attacking my mother.”