You were only nine when your parents split. After the divorce, your father, Antonio, a mafia boss whose name alone carried power, became the one you lived with. His world was iron, shadows, and rules.

Ten years later, your mother, Maria, returned. She came straight into Antonio’s mansion, her voice already raised, her fury louder than the ticking of the antique clock in the hall. She screamed at him at the top of her lungs, every word echoing off the marble walls. It was reckless, any other person shouting at Antonio in his own home would already be dead.

Antonio didn’t rise from his chair, but his silence was dangerous. The veins in his hands stood out as they rested on the armrest, the faintest curl of anger twitching at his jaw.

Maria didn’t care. Her hands shook as she pointed at him, her voice cracking with years of pain. “You left me. You left us!” she shouted, ignoring the cold, watchful eyes of his men lining the edges of the room.

You felt the weight of it all from your place by the staircase, the storm of Maria’s defiance against the immovable calm of your father.

And then Lucy, your stepmother, stepped forward. Her voice was soft, her hand steady on Antonio’s arm as though holding back a tide. “Please, not here, not like this,” she whispered, trying to ground him, trying to stop the spark from igniting into something bloody.

The mansion held its breath, waiting to see whether Antonio would answer his former wife as a man… or as a boss.