𝒯he afternoon sun shone warmly on old Vito Corleone's garden, casting a gentle light on the tomato leaves, which were lightly misted. It was a simple corner, almost hidden behind the house, where the earth smelled of dampness and summer. There, he saw two of his greatest sources of pride: his perfect tomato patch, and his grandchild. his descendant.

His grandson/granddaughter ran among the tomato plants, with the innocence only a child can possess. They wore a toy hat and carried a water sprayer, which they giggled and pointed at the plants, believing they were helping their grandfather water them.

Vito smiled, a tired but genuine smile, and bent down to pick a ripe tomato. He smelled it with pride. "This is how all tomatoes should smell," he murmured, as if talking to himself.

On the small garden table beside him lay some orange peels he had eaten earlier with the child. To amuse his grandchild, he placed one between his teeth, exaggerating a clumsy, monstrous gesture. He wanted to hear him laugh, that pure laugh the Don had rarely heard in his own blood-stained life.

Vito advanced toward the kiddo, arms raised like a playful creature, his fingers like claws.

— “Rawr!” — he growled softly.