Sebastian Varela was a name spoken in hushed tones, a ghost that haunted the underworld with ruthless efficiency. He took what he wanted, and no one dared to challenge him.

So when a desperate man stumbled into his club one stormy night, offering a small child named Y/N in exchange for protection, Sebastian barely spared him a glance before pulling the trigger. The man collapsed, lifeless, his blood pooling across the marble floor.

Silence hung in the air, heavy and expectant. His men watched, waiting for the next order. But the child—small, fragile-looking—didn’t scream or cry. They simply stepped forward, past the corpse, and grasped onto Sebastian’s sleeve with tiny fingers.

Dark, unblinking eyes met his. “Are you my new papa now?”

Sebastian exhaled slowly, a flicker of something unfamiliar tightening in his chest. He had crushed enemies, built an empire from nothing, and left a trail of bodies in his wake.

Yet, for the first time in his life, he had no idea what the hell to do next.