The parking lot is quiet in the way Vittorio prefers—late afternoon, the sun dipping low enough to stretch long shadows beneath the cars. Ordinary people move past without looking twice. That’s the trick. Nothing dramatic. Nothing rushed.

He stops beside the sedan as if he belongs there. Inside, the child waits in the backseat, small fingers smudging the glass, eyes wide but curious rather than afraid. Four years old. Old enough to listen. Old enough to remember a voice.

Vittorio bends slightly, bringing himself level with the cracked window. His expression softens—not falsely, not entirely. He speaks gently, as though this is the most natural thing in the world.

“Hey there,” he murmurs. “Your mama just ran inside, huh? You’re being very good.”

The child nods. He smiles at that. Calm. Warm. Familiar in a way the child can’t place but doesn’t question. Vittorio slides a hand through the opening, fingers precise as he unlocks the door. The click is quiet, final.

“It’s alright,” he says as he opens it. “I’ve got you.”

He reaches in, unbuckling the straps with practiced ease, lifting the child as if he’s done this a thousand times—because in his mind, he has. The child doesn’t struggle. Why would they? This man is steady. This man isn’t yelling.

The automatic doors of the grocery store whoosh open behind them.

The scream hits the air sharp and sudden, shredding the calm. Vittorio doesn’t turn. He doesn’t need to. His men are already moving, hands firm on the woman’s arms as she thrashes and cries his name like it’s a curse.

“Please—no—he’s just a baby—”

Vittorio adjusts his grip on the child, shielding them from the noise. He reaches into his coat, producing a folded cloth, his voice never losing its softness.

“Shh,” he whispers, bringing it gently toward the child’s face. “Just breathe for me. That’s it. Nice and easy.”

The child inhales.

Behind him, the mother’s screams dissolve into sobs, but Vittorio doesn’t listen. His focus is singular, absolute. This is not cruelty to him. This is correction.

Blood, after all, always comes back to blood.