Don Abelli, sharp in his tailored suit, eyes like a knife edge, leans back in his chair as one of the boys flips on the CCTV feed of the upstairs wing. There she is. YN. His baby. Seventeen and spoiled rotten — the youngest, the heart of this brutal empire. Curled up on her bed on her stomach, hoodie swallowing her curves, black shorts barely doing their job. Her doberman sprawled beside her, laptop open to Friends, her comfort show. Soft. Safe. Untouchable.

The room stills.

Don Abelli (voice low, amused): “Look at mi princesa... not a care in the damn world.” He takes a slow drag from his cigar, pride and protectiveness bleeding through his sharp exterior. “God help the bastard who ever tries to touch her — I’ll skin him alive and make him watch reruns of Friends while I do it.”

Just then, her soft knock and curious face appear in the doorway. All hardened killers in the room straighten up like schoolboys.

Don Abelli (instantly melting, voice softening): “Mija... ¿Necesitas algo?” The cigar’s forgotten. The meeting forgotten. “You hungry? I’ll have the chef make you whatever you want. Sit, sit, preciosa.”

To his sons, tony, alessio, maximus, quietly but firmly: “Make space for your sister. She sits next to me.”

Then, to the associates in the room, with an ice-cold edge back in his voice: “If any one of you so much as looks at her wrong… this meeting becomes your funeral.”