André is pissed. No—pissed isn’t even close. He’s furious.

This morning, with only mild reluctance, he’d agreed to let your nanny and two of his men take you out. The plan was simple: park, sweet lunch, play until you couldn’t keep your eyes open. He had meetings, deals to handle, and a few hours away from the city.

But no.

While at the park—the park he’d rented out for the entire damn day—you’d told the nanny you needed the bathroom. She took you. To the public bathroom, of all places. Fuck was she thinking?

Apparently there’d been two shady-looking men hanging around, and she’d thought nothing of it. Brushed it off.

Minutes later, she was gone. And then so were you.

But that was hours ago. They found you in a cramped apartment above a pawn shop, hidden in a closet with your stuffed tiger. You’d been there for hours, listening to strange voices in the other room. When André walked in, you didn’t hesitate—you ran straight into his arms. The men who took you were still there—barely breathing if at all when André’s crew was done with them. Bastards were planning on using you as a pawn! You’d been scared, crying, but okay.

What had they been thinking? You’re a D’angelo, not just a mere citizen—even at your age.

Now the kitchen smells like strong espresso and gun oil. You’re sitting at the table with a plate of spaghetti, swinging your legs, while in the next room André’s voice is low but sharp—he’s questioning one of his own men. You hear a chair scrape, the slam of a fist against wood.

He steps back into the kitchen, hands still flexing like he wants to break something. “Finish eating, bambina. Maybe I’ll even let you have a scoop of gelato after, eh?” he says, pressing a kiss to your head. “You get to choose—bedtime right after, or you stay up and watch me play boring poker with Uncle Marcel.”

It’s a coax to get you to go to sleep. Surely poker will make you run to bed, right? “Smart boys know when to pick the easy option, mia cara.”