The Mafia Boss Faked a Robbery to Test Loyalty – The Maid’s Toddler Grabbed a Broom to Fight

The hallway was dark, the kind of dark that swallows sound along with light. Somewhere past the third door, a floorboard creaked under a weight that did not belong there. Nobody in the Rianza estate knew, not yet, that the man standing at the end of that hallway had spent six years building walls around his heart, brick by brick, and that a three-year-old girl clutching a plastic broom was about to become the one person who could not be scared off.

Her name was Noemi Vega. She was three and a half years old, and she called the broom Sweepy, and she believed, with the total conviction only a toddler can carry, that Sweepy could beat anything. A monster under the bed, a dog too big to pet. Tonight, apparently, a stranger in the hall. She did not scream.

 She did not run for her mother. She planted her small bare feet on the cold marble, raised Sweepy over her head like a sword forged for exactly this moment, and said, in a voice that shook only a little, “You leave my Papa Dante alone.” Nobody could have told you, watching her stand there in pajamas printed with tiny yellow ducks, that this was the moment everything the mafia boss believed about loyalty would be tested and rebuilt from the ground up, not by a soldier, not by a bodyguard with 20 years of service, by a child who had known him less than a

season, and trusted him with her whole small heart anyway. If you have ever wondered what real loyalty looks like when nobody is watching, stay with this one to the end, because it starts small, and it does not stay small for long. Seven months earlier, Marisol Vega sat at the kitchen table of her one-bedroom apartment in Elizabeth, New Jersey, counting change from a coffee tin into stacks of quarters.

 $40 exactly, kept separate from everything else. It was a habit she had never been able to shake, not since the night three years ago when Noemi’s father packed one bag and left before sunrise, before Marisol had even told him she was seven weeks pregnant. $40 was gas money and a little more, enough to get somewhere safe if she ever needed to leave in a hurry again.

 She hoped she would never need it. She kept it anyway. She had been working three jobs at once for over a year. Mornings at a diner off Route 1, afternoons cleaning offices downtown, two nights a week at a laundromat where she folded strangers’ clothes until midnight while a neighbor watched Noemi for $10 an hour she could barely afford.

 She was tired in a way that had stopped feeling temporary. The call came from an old friend from nursing school, a woman named Priscilla who now managed household staff for a private family in the hills outside Newark. A live-in housekeeper position had opened up. Full room and board, a real salary, health insurance for her and her daughter.

Marisol almost hung up twice out of disbelief before she said yes. She did not ask many questions about the family. Priscilla had only said, carefully, that the man of the house was private, that he paid well and on time, and that the last housekeeper had left on good terms after 11 years.

 Marisol decided 11 years told her everything she needed to know. The morning she arrived at the Rienzi estate, Noemi rode on her hip the whole walk up the long gravel drive, wide-eyed at the size of the iron gate, the hedges clipped into perfect green rectangles, a fountain that actually worked. “Mama, is this a castle?” Noemi whispered, and Marisol laughed for the first time in weeks.

Priscilla met them at the side entrance and walked them through quickly. There were rules. Noemi could play in the garden and the kitchen wing. She was never, under any circumstance, to wander into the east corridor where Mr. Rienzi kept his private study. She was never to be loud when men in dark suits came to the house, and there would be men in dark suits often.

She was never to ask Mr. Rienzi personal questions. “He’s not unkind,” Priscilla added, softer. “He’s just not used to children in the house anymore.” Marisol nodded and filed the sentence away without asking it meant. She had learned a long time ago that some doors you did not knock on until someone invited you through.

 Within the first week, Noemi had already made a friend. His name was Ignatius, though everyone called him Iggy. A broad-shouldered man with a soft laugh who worked security and carried peppermints in his jacket pocket. He found Noemi sitting alone by the fountain on her third day there, dangling her bare feet in the water.

 And instead of shooing her off, he sat down on the stone edge beside her and asked, very seriously, whether she thought the fountain had fish in it. “No fish,” Noemi said, “just wishes.” Iggy laughed so hard he nearly fell in. Marisol watched from the kitchen window and let herself believe, just a little, that maybe this place would be good to them.

 It happened on a Tuesday, the kind of ordinary afternoon that later felt impossible to have been so ordinary. Noemi had been playing in the garden with a sheet of paper Iggy gave her, a leftover from some folder he no longer needed. She did not know what to do with plain paper, so she did what she always did with things she did not understand.

She experimented. She folded it in half, then in half again, the way she had seen her mother fold laundry, until it vaguely resembled something with wings. A gust of wind lifted it out of her hands and carried it toward the house. She chased it without thinking, the way 3-year-olds chase anything that moves faster than they do, through the side hedge, along the stone path she had been told a hundred times not to take, and straight through a set of French doors someone had left cracked open to let in the afternoon air.

The paper drifted to the floor in the middle of a room unlike any room Noemi had seen in the house. Dark wood shelves climbed to the ceiling, heavy curtains, a desk the size of her entire bedroom back in Elizabeth. And on that desk, sitting in a small glass case of its own, another paper shape, folded in a way she recognized immediately, a butterfly.

She had not known such a thing already existed in this house. She walked toward it, forgetting entirely about the one she had been chasing, and reached up on her toes to look closer without touching, because even at 3 and 1/2, she understood that some things behind glass were not meant to be touched. “What are you doing in here?” The voice was not loud. It did not need to be.

 It filled the room the way cold water fills a glass, all at once and completely. Noemi turned around slowly. The man in the doorway was tall, dressed in a dark gray suit despite it being the middle of the afternoon in his own home, his face carrying an expression she did not have a word for yet. Not anger, exactly.

Something colder and more tired than anger. This was Dante Rienzi. She had heard his name a hundred times in the weeks since they arrived, always spoken carefully, always a little too quiet, the way people talk about weather that might turn dangerous. She had built an image of him in her head from the fragments adults let slip.

Someone to be careful around. Someone the house seemed to hold its breath for. He did not look, in this moment, like someone who deserved to be feared. He looked, to Noemi, like someone who had not slept properly in a very long time. “I’m sorry,” she said, in the small, honest voice of a child who has not yet learned to perform apology, only to mean it.

My butterfly flew away. I was chasing it.” She held up the crumpled paper shape in her fist as proof. Dante’s eyes moved from the child’s face to the paper in her hand, then, involuntarily, to the glass case on his desk. His jaw tightened. “Is this yours?” Noemi asked, pointing at the butterfly under glass, entirely unaware she was standing in the one room in the house nobody was permitted to enter, entirely unaware the object she pointed at was the last thing his wife had ever made with her hands, folded on

a Sunday morning 6 years before a car exploded on Route 22 and took her out of his life in less time than it takes to finish a sentence. It’s pretty. Dante did not answer right away. For a long moment, the only sound in the room was the soft tick of a clock neither of them was looking at. Later, when he tried to explain it to Iggy, Dante would not be able to say exactly why he did not call for security.

Every instinct built over 20 years in this life told him to remove the threat, however small, however harmless it looked in pajamas. Instead, he found himself crossing the room and lowering himself slowly until he was kneeling on the rug in front of her, his knees protesting, his eyes level with hers for the first time.

 “What’s your name?” he said. “Noemi.” She said it carefully, the way she had been taught to say it to strangers, full name first. “Noemi Vega. I’m 3 and 1/2.” “And 1/2?” Dante repeated. And something in his chest shifted very slightly. An old door swinging open a crack it had not moved in years. Footsteps pounded down the corridor before either of them said anything else.

 Marisol burst through the open door seconds later, out of breath, terror written plainly across her face the moment she saw where her daughter was standing and who was kneeling in front of her. “Mr. Rienzi, I am so sorry. She’s never gone in there before. I turned my back for 1 minute. Please, she didn’t mean any harm. Please don’t.” “Marisol.

” His voice cut through the apology without raising in volume at all. He stood slowly, and for a moment Marisol braced herself for whatever came next, already rehearsing in her head how fast she could pack their one suitcase if it came to that. “She’s fine.” he said instead. “She was chasing a paper butterfly.

” He did not explain what that meant to him. He was not entirely sure he understood it himself yet. Marisol scooped Noemi up, murmuring apologies that trailed off when she realized nobody was asking for them anymore. At the doorway, Noemi twisted in her mother’s arms and looked back at Dante over her shoulder. “Bye, Papa Dante.

” she said, cheerful and entirely without permission, the way children hand out names to adults they have decided to love before anyone has agreed to the terms. Marisol went pale and started to correct her, but Dante only lifted one hand, a small gesture, and let it go. That night, long after the house had gone quiet, Dante sat alone in his study with the glass case open in front of him for the first time in longer than he wanted to count.

 He picked up the butterfly Elena had folded on a Sunday morning that now felt like it belonged to someone else’s life entirely, and turned it over in his hands the way he had not let himself do since the funeral. He thought he would feel the usual weight when he touched it, the specific grief that had not softened with time, only calcified into something he carried without examining too closely.

Instead, unexpectedly, he found himself thinking of a small, crumpled paper shape held up in a child’s fist, offered without fear, without agenda, simply because she thought it was pretty and wanted to know if it belonged to him. He set Elena’s butterfly back in its case. He did not close the glass. It became, without either of them deciding it should, a Tuesday habit.

 The first time, Noemi simply showed up at the study door with a stack of paper she had taken from the printer in the hallway, announcing her butterflies were better than his because hers had more pointy parts. Dante, against every instinct that had governed his life for 6 years, let her in. He watched her small hands fumble through the folds, tongue poking out the corner of her mouth in concentration, and found himself correcting the angle of a wing without thinking, the way Elena had once corrected his.

“Not like that.” Noemi said, unbothered by correcting a man three grown men in this city were afraid to look directly in the eye. “Mine has a secret fold. Mama taught me.” She showed him a fold Elena had never used, a small tuck at the base of the wings that caught the light differently. Dante folded a second butterfly using Noemi’s method and set it beside Elena’s in the glass case.

 Two butterflies now, folded 6 years and one impossible child apart. He did not remove either one. The cook, a formidable woman named Ines who had worked in that kitchen for 19 years and answered to no one, had a standing 4:00 ritual of baking a small batch of sugar cookies for Noemi, a habit that started the second week and showed no signs of stopping.

 The first time Dante wandered into the kitchen at 4:00 in the afternoon, ostensibly to speak to Ines about a supplier issue, he ended up standing near the counter for 11 minutes before anyone said anything about it. The second time, Ines set a plate down at the empty seat across from Noemi without a word. By the third week, it was simply understood that Dante Rienzi sat at that table at 4:00 and nobody in the house commented on it, though plenty of them noticed.

 One afternoon, over cookies, Noemi launched into a long and elaborate story about Sweepy the broom, who she explained was not just a broom, but a knight who protected the house from monsters every night while everyone slept. “What kind of monsters?” Dante asked, mostly to keep the conversation going. “Big ones, with teeth.

” She said this with total seriousness, gesturing wildly with a half-eaten cookie. “But Sweepy isn’t scared. Sweepy protects the people he loves. That’s the rule.” “That’s the rule?” Dante repeated. “Yeah.” “Mama says you protect people you love even when you’re scared, especially then.” Dante set his coffee down.

Something about the sentence, delivered around a mouthful of sugar cookie by a 3-year-old, landed somewhere he had not expected. He laughed, a real laugh, short and surprised out of him, the first sound like it Ines had heard from him in years. In the corner of the kitchen, a junior housemaid nearly dropped a tray at the sound of it.

What nobody in that kitchen noticed, and what Dante himself would only piece together weeks later was that Victor Kessler had passed by the east corridor twice that same week at hours that did not match his usual rounds. Each time pausing a beat too long near the studies outer hallway before continuing on.

 Each time offering the same explanation to anyone who asked. Routine security check. Nothing more. Iggy noticed. Iggy always noticed. He said nothing yet. Only filed it away the way he had learned to do over 11 years of watching Dante’s back and kept his questions for later when he had more than a feeling to bring to his friend.

He waited 3 weeks before he said anything and even then he chose his moment carefully. Catching Dante alone in the study late on a Thursday night after the house had gone quiet. “I need to show you something.” he said and set a laptop down on the desk between them. The security footage logs told a specific story once you knew how to read them.

 Two dates, both in the past month, where the camera covering the east corridor showed a 4-minute gap. The feed frozen on an identical frame each time rather than simply cutting out. The kind of gap that happens when someone with system access loops an old frame to hide movement underneath it. Both gaps lined up almost to the minute with times Victor had logged as routine security checks.

Dante studied the timestamps for a long time without speaking. “It could be a glitch.” Iggy said, though his tone made clear he did not believe that himself. “I’ve seen the system throw errors before, but two identical gaps, same length, same corridor, same week. I noticed him hanging around out here for no reason I could pin down.

 I don’t like it.” “Neither do I.” Dante said quietly. He did not say what he was thinking, but Iggy had known him long enough to read it anyway. 11 years ago, almost to the season, a different set of small inconsistencies had sat in front of Dante and he had waved them away because the man responsible had earned 14 years of trust and a reputation nobody thought to question.

 Bartholomew Cole had been family in every way that mattered until the night he wasn’t and Elena had paid the price for how long it took Dante to see it. He was not going to make that mistake twice, not even for a man who had once put himself in the path of a bullet meant for Dante’s chest. “I don’t want to accuse him on a hunch.” Dante said finally.

 “If I’m wrong, I lose the best security chief I’ve ever had over paranoia. If I’m right and I move too soon, he’ll know we’re watching and cover his tracks before we find who he’s working with, if anyone.” “So, what do you want to do?” Dante was quiet for a long moment. Turning the paper butterfly on his desk between two fingers without seeming to notice he was doing it.

 “I want to see what everyone does when they think no one’s watching.” He said. “Not just Victor, everyone. If there’s a threat in this house, real or staged, I want to know who runs, who freezes, and who stays.” Iggy did not love the plan the moment he heard the shape of it. “You’re talking about staging something in the house at night.” “A drill.

” Dante said. “Contained. You and two men I trust completely playing the threat. Nobody else briefed. Saturday, when most of the staff is here for the monthly dinner. If Victor’s clean, he loses nothing but a bad night’s sleep. If he isn’t, he’ll show his hand trying to use the chaos.” “And the girl?” Iggy said carefully.

 “Noemi will be in the house.” Something crossed Dante’s face, brief and unguarded. “Marisol keeps her in the staff quarters on the west side during dinners. She won’t be anywhere near it.” Iggy did not look entirely convinced, but he had learned a long time ago which arguments were worth having with Dante Rienzi and which were not.

Two floors above them, unable to sleep, Marisol stood outside the study door longer than she should have, close enough to catch fragments of a conversation she was never meant to hear. “Drill. Saturday. Victor.” She backed away slowly, heart pounding, and told herself it was not her place to ask questions about a plan built by men who had run this house long before she arrived.

 She checked on Noemi twice that night instead of once and did not fall asleep again until nearly dawn. Saturday came dressed as an ordinary evening. The monthly staff dinner filled the main hall with the low hum of conversation and the smell of Ines’s cooking. Nearly every member of the household present, plates passed, wine poured, the particular ease of people who worked hard all month allowing themselves one night to relax together.

 Marisol sat near the end of the table and against her better judgement, against every instruction she had been given, she had let Noemi stay downstairs an extra half hour, seated on her lap, sleepy and full of bread rolls, rather than settling her upstairs alone in the quiet staff quarters. She would spend a long time afterward grateful for that small act of disobedience.

The lights went out at exactly 9:15. Not a flicker, not a brownout. All at once the entire ground floor plunged into total darkness and half a second later the sound of a door being kicked open near the east corridor cracked through the dark like a gunshot. Two figures in black moved fast through the hallway, shouting, deliberately loud, deliberately terrifying, exactly as rehearsed.

Chairs scraped back. Someone screamed. In an instant the calm dinner dissolved into pure animal panic. People diving under the table, bolting for the kitchen exit. A junior housemaid knocking an entire tray of glasses over in her scramble toward the pantry. Marisol’s first instinct was pure and immediate.

 She grabbed Noemi off her lap and turned to run for the nearest exit. The same instinct that had once made her pack a bag in the dark and disappear before sunrise. The animal certainty that her only job in this world was to get her child somewhere safe. Noemi did not run. She twisted hard in her mother’s arms, small body wrenching sideways with a strength that startled Marisol into nearly dropping her, and in the chaos of screaming and overturned chairs, she found her feet on the floor and did the one thing nobody in that room, not Iggy, not Dante, not her own

mother, had planned for. She ran toward the east corridor, toward the noise, toward him. “Noemi!” Marisol’s voice cracked as she lunged after her daughter, but the crowd surged the wrong way, bodies moving against her, and for three unbearable seconds, she lost sight of the small shape disappearing into the dark hallway.

 Noemi reached the study doorway with Sweepy gripped in both hands, held high the way she had practiced a hundred times fighting invisible monsters in the garden, and found Dante standing near his desk, illuminated only by the faint emergency light glowing along the baseboards. One of the masked figures blocking the doorway between them.

She did not think. She did not calculate the size difference between herself and a grown man in a mask. She simply planted her feet the way she had at the very start of this story, raised the plastic broom over her head, and screamed the only sentence that mattered to her in that moment, “You leave my Papa Dante alone.

” Behind his mask, the man froze, because nothing in 11 years of this life had prepared him for a three-year-old attacking him with a toy broom while genuinely, fearlessly meaning it. Dante crossed the room in two strides and swept Noemi up against his chest before she could take another step forward.

 One arm wrapped tight around her, his heart pounding harder than it had during the actual gunfight six years ago that left a scar across his ribs. “I’ve got you,” he said, voice rough. “I’ve got you. It’s okay.” That was the exact moment the lights came back on. The hallway flooded with light all at once, revealing the staged chaos for what it was.

The two men in masks pulling them off. Iggy’s voice calling out from the far end of the corridor that it was over. It was a drill. Everyone was safe. Relief rippled through the dinner hall in a wave of nervous laughter and shaking hands. But down near the wine cellar, in the confusion nobody had accounted for, Victor Kessler had used the 90 seconds of total darkness exactly as Dante suspected he might.

He moved fast and sure toward the hidden panel behind the east corridor bookshelf, the one concealing a safe that held a list of every confidential informant and internal contact the organization protected, the kind of list that would be worth more to the Marchetti family than anything else in the entire house.

He got the panel open. He got two fingers on the dial. He did not get further than that because Iggy had been waiting in the dark beside that exact bookshelf for 11 minutes, exactly as Dante had quietly asked him to the night before, just in case. “Don’t.” Iggy said, and the single word landed heavier than any shout could have.

Victor’s hands dropped to his sides. In the sudden light of the corridor, his face had gone the color of old paper, and when he turned around, there was no fight left in him at all, only a kind of exhausted collapse that had clearly been building for months. Dante arrived a moment later, Noemi still on his hip, and looked at the man who had once thrown himself in front of a bullet meant for his chest, now standing with his hand caught on the door of a safe he had no authorization to open. “Victor.” Just the name, quiet,

almost gentle, which was somehow worse than shouting. Victor sank down onto the bottom step of the corridor stairs, his whole body folding inward. “My son.” he said, voice breaking on the second word. “Ellian. He has a heart condition, congenital. He’s needed surgery for 2 years, and the insurance won’t cover it.

$380,000. Dante, I didn’t know what else to do.” His hands were shaking. “The Marchettis offered to cover all of it for information, just information, nothing that would get anyone hurt. That’s what they told me. And I told myself if I never gave them anything that actually mattered you gave them 4 minutes of blind camera feed twice in 1 month, Iggy said flatly.

That’s not nothing. Victor did not argue. He put his face in his hands. Dante stood very still for a long moment. Noemi’s small arms still wrapped tight around his neck, her face pressed against his shoulder, her whole body trembling now that the adrenaline of the moment had started to drain out of her. He thought of Bartholomew Cole.

14 years of trust and one betrayal that had cost him everything. He thought of how easy it would be to feel nothing at all right now except the old cold certainty that loyalty was a fiction people told each other until the price got high enough. Instead, unexpectedly, something in his chest gave way. He felt it before he understood it.

 A tightness behind his eyes he had not allowed himself in 6 years. Not at the funeral, not in any of the quiet nights since. He looked down at the small girl in his arms who had run toward danger instead of away from it, armed with nothing but a plastic broom and the absolute conviction that protecting the people you love was simply the rule, especially when you were scared.

 And he felt his eyes fill without his permission. Marisol arrived seconds later, breathless, terrified, and stopped short in the doorway at the sight of Dante Rienzi. Feared by grown men across three states, standing in the wreckage of a staged robbery with tears on his face and her daughter asleep against his shoulder.

Victor Kessler did not go to the police, and he did not disappear the way men in his position usually did when they crossed a line like this one. Dante sat with him alone in the study past midnight, long after the dinner hall had been cleared and the staff sent to bed with shaking hands and stories they would tell each other for years.

You’re finished here, Dante said, and Victor nodded, already expecting worse. You’ll never work security for any family in this business again. That part isn’t negotiable, and you know why. I know, Victor said quietly. But your son gets his surgery. Dante slid a folder across the desk, thin, unmarked. There’s a foundation, medical fund, private, unaffiliated with me on paper in any way that matters.

 It covers the full cost and the follow-up care. Elian gets his surgery within the month. Victor stared at the folder like he did not trust it to be real. Why? He finally said. After what I did. Why would you do this? Because a father doing something desperate for his sick child isn’t the same thing as a man who sells out the people who trusted him for greed, Dante said.

I’ve had both kinds cross me. I know the difference now. I didn’t always. He did not say Bartholomew Cole’s name, but they both understood who he meant. You’ll leave the state, Dante continued. Tonight, if you can manage it. Nobody outside this room will ever know the full story of what happened, including my own people.

You disappear. Your son gets healthy, and we never speak of this again. Victor left before sunrise, the folder tucked under his arm, and nobody in the house ever asked what happened to him beyond a quiet explanation that he had taken a position out of state for family reasons.

 Only Iggy knew the whole truth, and Iggy had never once in 11 years repeated something Dante asked him to keep. Marisol, for her part, found herself called into the study 3 days later. Certain she was about to be let go over her daughter’s role in the chaos, her hands cold with the same old fear that had followed her through every job she’d ever held.

Instead, Dante offered her the position of estate manager, full oversight of the household staff, a raise that made her sit down hard in the chair across from his desk. I don’t understand, she said. After everything that happened, I thought I was about to lose my job. You kept $40 in a tin for 3 years in case you ever needed to run, Dante said, and watched her face go pale at being seen so precisely.

Priscilla mentioned it once, in passing, before you started. I didn’t think much of it then. I think about it differently now. That’s not the habit of someone dishonest, Marisol. That’s the habit of someone who’s had to survive with nothing and still never once took what wasn’t hers. He paused. Your daughter ran toward danger to protect a man she’d known less than a year, armed with a toy broom, because somewhere along the way you taught her that’s simply what you do for people you love. I don’t think loyalty like that

gets built by accident. I think it gets taught, one small choice at a time, by a mother who never had the luxury of choosing the easy thing. Marisol did not trust herself to speak for a moment. She accepted the position with a nod, because her voice was not entirely steady yet. 3 months later, on a warm afternoon in early autumn, the garden at the Rienzi estate looked nothing like it had on the night everything nearly fell apart.

The fountain ran clear in the sunlight. Near the hedges, Iggy sat on the stone bench sharing peppermints with Enis, who had finally agreed to let him taste test a new cookie recipe before Noemi got to it first. On a blanket spread beneath the largest oak tree, Dante Rienzi sat cross-legged in a way none of his associates would have believed possible.

A small stack of paper squares between himself and Noemi, both of them deep in concentration over the fold of a wing. “Not like that,” Noemi said, exactly the way she had the first time, entirely unbothered by correcting him again. “You got to do the secret fold.” “Show me,” Dante said, and she did, small fingers guiding his through the tuck at the base of the wings, patient in the specific way children are patient only with people they’ve decided to trust completely.

 Inside the study, on the shelf above the desk, two things sat side by side that had not shared space until 3 months ago. A glass case holding a paper butterfly folded by a woman gone 6 years, its wings catching the afternoon light exactly as they always had. And beside it, no longer hidden behind decorum or grief, a small plastic broom named Sweepy, retired now from active duty, kept in a place of honor for the night it stood between a mafia boss and everything he still had left to lose.

Marisol watched from the kitchen window, a dish towel forgotten in her hands, and thought that some houses you walk into are strangers, and some houses, if you are very lucky, slowly become something else entirely. Outside, in the last of the September sun, Noemi held up her finished butterfly for Dante’s approval, wings slightly crooked, secret fold intact, and he told her, without a single trace of the coldness that had once defined every room he walked into, that it was the best one he had ever seen.

 She believed him completely. She always did. If this story stayed with you, that quiet kind of loyalty, the kind nobody has to teach a child, only model for her, tell me in the comments which moment hit you hardest. Was it the broom in the hallway or the two butterflies sitting side by side in that glass case? Thank you for watching all the way to the end.

If you want more stories like this one, stories about the families we choose and the small people who end up saving us, hit subscribe so you don’t miss the next one, and drop a like if Noemi earned it tonight. Take care of the people who run toward you instead of away, and I’ll see you in the next story.