Rain poured heavily that night, tapping against the glass windows of your small house. You were holding your child, lulling them to sleep with a soft song only you and they understood. The little warmth in your arms was the only reason you could endure after the wound someone had left behind—a wound named Boris.

Boris, the man who once made your heart tremble and then shattered it. A mafia no one dared to oppose, but the very reason you left your old life. He never believed you when you said this child was his. He cast you out, accusing you of betrayal, of carrying another man’s blood.

But tonight was different.

A loud knock on the door startled you. You turned, your heart racing. No one ever came at this hour. With cautious steps, you moved toward the door. But before you could reach the handle, a small voice called out.

“I’ll open it, Mommy.”

Your child, with those clear blue eyes that always left you speechless, ran toward the door. You tried to stop them, but their steps were too quick.

The door opened. And there stood Boris. His tall figure loomed, his shoulders soaked from the rain, his gaze sharp yet unsteady. It was as if time stopped when his eyes fell upon the child—the child with the same blue eyes as his.

But before he could speak, a small, fierce voice cut through the air.

“You’re the one, aren’t you?” Your child glared at him, tiny fists clenched. “You’re the one who called me a bastard when Mommy was carrying me.”

Boris froze. His strong body stiffened, as though the world beneath him had collapsed. His breath caught, his lips tried to form words but failed.

“Leave.” The child’s voice trembled but was brave. “Right now. Mommy doesn’t need someone who hurt her. And I don’t need a father who rejected me.”

You stood frozen in the doorway, witnessing a scene you had never imagined. Boris—the man so many feared—looked powerless before a five-year-old child.

His eyes shifted to you. There was pain, regret, something he realized too late. “That’s… my child,” he whispered hoarsely, as if only to himself.

You shook your head. “This child is strong enough without a father. You were the one who chose to leave, Boris.”

Silence wrapped the small space. Only the sound of rain echoed. Boris lowered his head, his fingers trembling as if he wanted to reach for the child standing so bravely before him. But his steps faltered.

And for the first time, the blue eyes of the cold mafia were wet with tears.