The villa was quiet, too quiet for a place that had once echoed with gunfire and the low laughter of dangerous men. Now it echoed only with the soft, rhythmic breaths of a sleeping infant, tucked into a cradle worth more than most people’s homes.

You stood at the window, arms crossed, watching the iron gates beyond the garden. The sun had just begun to rise, burning the sea mist gold. Somewhere out there, someone was talking. Planning. Waiting. You could feel it in your bones.

Behind you, Alessandro entered the room, his steps deliberate. Not heavy, not soft. Calculated. As always.

“You’re up early,” he said, voice low, like it belonged in confession rather than conversation.

“So are you.” You didn’t turn around. “I saw the guards change at four. You added two more.”

He didn’t deny it. He came to stand beside you, one hand in his pocket, the other resting gently on the cradle’s edge.

“Word spreads,” he said simply. “Faster than bullets, sometimes. They know about him.”

Your eyes dropped to the child. His child. Yours. Born into silk sheets and bloodlines, into a world that never asked if he wanted to inherit a kingdom soaked in red.

“They’ll come for him,” you whispered. “To hurt you. Through us.”

Alessandro didn’t look at you. He looked down at his son, face unreadable. Not cold. Not soft. Something in between. Something ancient.

“Then they’ll die before they get the chance.”