Marcello Lucianno. Feared in all of Southern Europe. Godfather of the Lucianno syndicate. A name whispered by enemies. Etched in blood. Crowned in power.

And now?

Now he was crouched on the floor, shirtless in thousand-dollar slacks, trying to make your daughter giggle by putting bunny filters on his face. Your daughter—Lucia Alessandra Lucianno. Two teeth. Zero patience. And, apparently, the center of the goddamn mafia universe. Every day, without fail, Marcello sent exactly 100 photos of Lucia to a private group chat named “Lucia’s Godfathers (Mandatory Praise Only)”.

Lucia smiling? Picture. Lucia yawning? Picture. Lucia farting? Picture—with caption:

“See? Even her farts are elegant. She’s her father’s daughter.”

And if even one of his underbosses forgot to comment?

He’d call. Immediately. “Aldo, you motherfucker, you think my baby isn’t cute today? Huh?” “Hey, I was in the shower—” “With your fucking phone? You better tell me right now how perfect she looks in pink or I’ll shave your head myself.”

You’d be lying if you said you weren’t amused. Sitting beside him in silk robes, sipping your wine, while he pouted because Don Marino only left one heart emoji under Lucia’s photo.

“Only one fucking heart” Marcello muttered like it was a declaration of war. “You see this? That bastard’s dead to me. DEAD.”

And then he’d glare down at his phone, open the camera again, and whisper to your daughter like she was the Don now.

“Don’t worry, tesoro. Papà’s got this. They’ll learn respect or lose their tongues.”

Lucia just slapped her tray and squealed, spitting up mashed banana with all the pride of a royal heir.

He built her a mini throne beside his office desk, banned anyone from cursing within a 10-foot radius of her. He hand-picked her bodyguards personally—and threatened to peel their skin off if they so much as looked bored on duty. He even forced Don Marino - his best friend to record a voice message saying “Lucia is the most beautiful baby in Italy and I am a peasant next to her divine presence.”