Random Imagines I Came Up With

The Game and the Gun

The squeak of sneakers on hardwood echoed through the gym, the scoreboard blinking zeroes as the crowd dispersed. Winter Gambino lingered alone at center court, sweat dripping down her temple, jersey clinging to her frame. She had played her heart out. Twenty-three points. The win. But her eyes kept scanning the bleachers.

He wasn't there.

Again.

She turned to grab her bag when the doors creaked open.

Black coat. Cufflinks. A flash of gold at his wrist. Lucien Gambino walked in like the air owed him space. His presence was a storm - silent, thunderous.

"You missed it," Winter said, not turning around.

Lucien paused a few feet behind her. "I saw the last five minutes. From the shadows. Safer that way."

Winter scoffed. "Safer for who? You or me?"

He didn't answer right away. She finally faced him, fire in her eyes, but there was a glisten there too.

Lucien stepped closer, his eyes tired. "I wanted to be here the whole time, Winter. God knows I did. But if someone saw me, recognized me, they'd follow you home instead of me. I won't let that happen."

Her fists clenched. "You think I care about your enemies? I care that you're never here. That I look into the crowd and all I see is a shadow where my dad's supposed to be."

His jaw flexed, pain flickering beneath the stone. He reached into his coat - not for a weapon, but for a small velvet box.

She eyed it cautiously. "What is that?"

Lucien opened it. A pendant. Small, silver, with her jersey number - 11 - engraved on the back. Inside the locket was a picture: her first varsity game. And next to her in the photo, a man in sunglasses, just barely in frame.

"I was there, too," he said softly. "Every game. I've never missed one. I just... can't let them see me cheering for you."

Winter blinked, chest tightening. Her voice dropped. "Why?"

"Because loving you is the only thing that makes me weak," he murmured. "And weakness gets you killed in my world."

Silence wrapped around them.

Then Winter stepped forward. She took the pendant, her fingers brushing his - cool, calloused, trembling. She hung it around her neck, eyes locked on his.

"You're not weak, Papa," she whispered. "You're my father. And I don't care who sees."

Lucien Gambino, the man who once made grown men beg for mercy, felt his throat tighten. And for the first time in years, he let himself pull her into an embrace.

A father.

A daughter.

The game, the gun - for a moment, none of it mattered.