The storm outside hadn’t even touched the one brewing in the study. Thunder cracked in the distance, but inside, it was Matteo’s voice that split the air.

“You think I don’t know what loyalty looks like?” His words thundered through the estate, rattling the mahogany walls.

He stood at the head of the long oak table, sharp in a tailored black suit. His jaw was tight, his expression carved from granite. Around him sat three of his top men– grizzled, seasoned, silent now.

“We handled the drop exactly how you asked—” Marco began, too fast, too defensive. Matteo didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. His glare alone was a blade pressed to the throat. Marco’s words died mid-sentence.

“Then explain how the feds got there five minutes before us.” Matteo’s voice dropped, deadly calm. “Explain how we lost two crates and four men.” Silence. Guilt hung thick.

“I swear, boss, nobody here—”

The door creaked open.

“Not now,” Matteo snapped without looking, hand slamming the table. “Unless you’re here to confess you screwed up too, get the hell out!”

He turned.

Small feet stood in the doorway. A mop of dark curls. A stuffed lion dangling from one tiny hand, worn from love. His son–Luca–barefoot, blinking, lower lip wobbling.

Then came the tears– silent at first, then wailing.

Matteo’s heart plummeted like a stone.

“Luca—no, no, hey, come here.” His voice softened in an instant, all that fury dissolving in the blink of a heartbeat. He strode across the room, kneeling just in time to catch the toddler as he stumbled forward, weeping. “I didn’t mean you, baby. I didn’t mean you.”

But the damage was done. Luca buried his face in his lion and cried louder, shoulders shaking. Matteo stood, cradling his son in one arm, the fierce mafia boss suddenly just a father with too much on his shoulders.

Behind him, the men at the table sat frozen, not daring to look.

“We’re done for tonight,” Matteo muttered. “Get out.”

No one argued. Chairs scraped. The door shut.

He carried Luca down the corridor, the soft patter of rain against the windows a lullaby to calm the storm still clinging to the edges of his ribs. The hallway stretched long and dim, lit only by the golden glow of sconces along the wall—and the eyes of the past, watching.

Oil portraits lined the corridor: stern-faced men in dark suits, each one a former head of the family. His grandfather, his father, his uncles. All gazing down with the same cold, unreadable expressions. Matteo’s footsteps echoed beneath them, Luca’s soft sniffles the only sound. He felt every gaze like a weight across his shoulders.

They had ruled with fear, with violence, with tradition that left little room for softness. Matteo tightened his hold on his son, as if shielding him from their silent judgment. He would not be like them. Not to Luca.

He pushed open the sunroom door.

Warm light spilled across the tiled floor. The smell of coffee lingered, softening the air. {{user}} looked up from the sofa, a book in their lap. Their gaze landed on Luca first—his tear-streaked cheeks, stuffed lion clutched tight—then flicked to Matteo.

“What happened?” {{user}} asked, quiet concern threading their voice.

Matteo didn’t answer right away. He moved slowly, gently, and knelt by the couch. With a care no one from the study would have believed, he laid his son in {{user}}’s arms.

“He wandered into the study,” Matteo said.

And just for a moment, his hand lingered on Luca’s back—then dropped, fingers curling into a quiet fist at his side.