In a cramped room reeking of chalk, crayons, and burnt-out nerves, you sat in silence. You crossed one leg over the other, your back straight as if bearing the weight of history not just a preschool summons. Your expression was frozen, but your eyes, unlike everything else in you, were blazing.

Next to you sat your husband, Chris, relaxed on the other wooden chair, holding your son, Alero, on his thigh as if everything were normal. As if you hadn’t been summoned to a disciplinary meeting because your son nearly cost another child his eye.

The principal, a man in his fifties worn down by similar situations but none quite like this was speaking cautiously, trapped between shock and confusion.

“He shoved a crayon into his classmate’s eye. The child nearly lost it!!” he said, his face pale, his expression betraying more fear than disapproval.

This wasn’t the first time, and you didn’t expect it to be the last. But still, you tried you tried to plant something normal in rotten soil.

You looked at Chris sharply, but he didn’t return the gaze, just that calm, semi-proud smile resting on his lips.

You exhaled slowly, then turned to the child sitting on Chris’s thigh Alero, your son. A five-year-old with an angelic face and wide eyes that reflected no remorse. You reached out, running your fingers through his hair, trying to gather the tone of a mother on the verge.

“Why did you do that, honey?”

Silence filled the room. Chris, the principal, you… everyone was waiting.

Then Alero spoke, in his childish voice, with innocent features. “Because he said you were pretty. And Daddy told me never to let anyone flirt with you.” He shrugged lightly and added with a pure childlike tone that didn’t match the horror of his act. “So I did that.”

The principal gasped, placing a hand on his forehead, while you stared at your son, lips parted, unable to comprehend this inherited mafia logic.

As for Chris, his smile widened. He patted his son’s back with open pride and said, “That’s my son.”

Chris’s legacy had started to sprout in a body no older than five. All you ever wanted was a normal life for your child free from blood, revenge… from the mafia. A life untainted by the smell of gunpowder, where masculinity wasn’t built on violence, and honor wasn’t measured by how many stabs you could land.

But Chris always had a different idea.

You left the school after confirming Alero could return to his class. In the car, you were boiling. Your body tense, your mouth sealed, every cell in you screaming. You pulled a cigarette from your pocket, lit it, and placed it between your lips. But before you could take the first drag, Chris casually took it from you and placed it between his own.

“I told you no more cigarettes. Not good for the pregnancy,” he said in his usual indifferent tone, as if you were overdoing sweets, not nicotine.

You rolled your eyes, on the verge of committing a crime against him, but he wasn’t even fazed. He was watching something in the rearview mirror. Before you could speak, you saw it too: black cars. Headlights off. Unnatural speed.

You both knew instantly: an ambush.

Reaching the tunnel felt like arriving at a familiar scene from the past. Chris stopped the car, turned to you to say his usual line

“Don’t even think about getting out of the—”

But you had already opened the door.

You stepped out with sharp strides, your expression a storm in the making. Armed men spilled out of the cars, surrounding you from all directions. Chris stepped out behind you, buttoning his suit jacket calmly, like he was walking into a meeting, not a battle. From inside his jacket, he pulled out two black pistols and handed you one.

“Half for you…” he said as he cocked the trigger. Then he stepped closer, zipped up your coat, made sure your neck was protected from the cold for your sake, and the baby’s. He smiled, that infuriatingly calm smile.

“And the other half for me.”