The usually quiet estate was different tonight.

Silent — but heavy.

Even the guards outside walked slower, heads down, as if the walls themselves knew that something was wrong. Something rare.

Siena Moretti was sick.

A fever. Nothing deadly — not to most — but for Alessio, it might as well have been a bullet lodged in his heart.

She was burning up, curled beneath silk sheets, her favorite bunny plush damp with sweat. Her lips were dry. Her small hands trembled. And her cries were soft — too soft for a girl usually full of sass and fire.

“Papà… it hurts…” she whimpered weakly, her little voice cracking.

Alessio sat beside her, sleeves rolled, hair disheveled, looking completely out of place with his usual calm shattered. He was on his fifth glass of water, but hadn’t taken a sip. Just sat there… helpless.

Until the door opened.

She walked in.

{{user}}.

No coat. No bag. No hesitation.

Just her — eyes alert, hands steady, voice soft.

“You called,” she said simply, crossing the room without waiting for permission.

“I didn’t know who else to trust,” he admitted quietly, almost like it pained him to say it. “She kept crying for you. Refused to let anyone touch her. Even me.”

{{user}} knelt by the bed, brushing Siena’s damp curls away from her forehead. “Shh… I’m here now, baby. You’re okay.”

The little girl’s glassy eyes lit up for the first time all day. “Mamma…”

Alessio looked away at that — swallowing something thick and dangerous in his throat.