Don’t let anybody make Mommy cry anymore.” I almost laughed.

The heavy brass handle of my office door slowly turned down.

Underneath the dark mahogany desk, my right hand closed tightly around the cool, textured grip of my custom Sig Sauer. My index finger rested lightly against the trigger guard. Across the room, Elena’s breathing was fast and shallow, her face drained of all color as she pulled three-year-old Mia behind her skirts.

The door glided open on silent hinges.

Vincent stepped inside first. He was sixty-two years old, silver-haired, impeccably tailored in a charcoal wool suit, holding a leather folder against his chest. For three decades, he had been my father’s right hand and then mine—the man who handled the family's books, our political connections, and our vast legal trusts.

Right behind him came Daniel. Thirty-five, built like a brick wall, wearing his standard tactical jacket with the subtle bulge of a holstered firearm beneath his left arm. As my head of security, Daniel had keys to every room, every gate, and every camera system across the entire Moretti estate.

"Luca," Vincent said smoothly, offering his usual respectful nod. "Apologies for interrupting, but we have the quarterly distribution reports ready for your signature before the board meeting tonight."

He stopped mid-stride. His sharp eyes flicked from my face down to Elena, who was standing frozen against the bookshelves, her hand shielding Mia's small shoulders.

Daniel took half a step forward, his dark eyes instantly locking onto Elena’s wrist—the wrist where the dark, purple fingerprint bruises were still faintly visible beneath her hastily tugged sleeve. A subtle, dangerous tension tightened around Daniel's jawline, lasting no longer than a heartbeat before his face smoothed back into a neutral mask.

"Ah, Elena," Vincent murmured softly, his tone dripping with fake paternal warmth. "We didn't realize you were in here with Mr. Moretti. Is everything all right?"

My thumb slowly disengaged the safety on the pistol hidden beneath the desk. The silence in the room stretched so tight it felt like glass about to shatter.

"Everything is fine, Vincent," I said. My voice was smooth, quiet, and utterly devoid of emotion—the voice that usually made grown men in the underworld start sweating. "Elena was just bringing Mia in to say hello."

I looked directly at Daniel. "Is there a reason you accompanied Vincent up to my private floor just to hand over paperwork?"

Daniel shifted his weight slightly, his hands resting loosely near his belt line. "Standard security protocol, boss. Given the recent tension with the Falcone family in Chicago, I’m personally escorting senior leadership through the main house."

It was a plausible lie. An answer that would have satisfied me yesterday. But looking at him now, noticing the way his chest leaned subtly toward Elena, the lie felt toxic.

"I see," I said softly.

Little Mia peeked out from behind Elena’s dress. Her tiny fingers pointed straight at Daniel’s polished shoes. "He has the noisy keys," she whispered, her voice carrying clearly across the silent office. "The ones that make noise outside Mommy's door when it's dark."

Elena gasped, pulling Mia back immediately. "Mia, sweetie, shh!"

Vincent’s smile vanished completely. Daniel’s eyes narrowed into slits.

"Children have such vivid imaginations," Vincent remarked smoothly, though his voice had dropped half an octave into something distinctly colder. "It must be difficult for her, growing up without her father. The estate can feel quite overwhelming at night."

My brother Julian had been dead for fourteen months—killed in an automobile accident that my internal investigators had ruled a mechanical failure. Ever since, Elena and Mia had lived in the south wing of the Moretti estate under what I had believed to be my complete, ironclad protection.

"Leave the folder on the desk, Vincent," I said, keeping my gaze locked onto Daniel’s throat. "And both of you wait outside my door. We'll discuss the board meeting in five minutes."

Vincent hesitated for a fraction of a second, his dark eyes calculating the room, before placing the leather folder onto the wood. "Of course, Luca."

Daniel didn't move right away. He stared at Elena for two long seconds—a silent, possessive threat delivered in plain sight—before turning on his heel and following Vincent out into the corridor. The heavy door clicked shut behind them.

The moment the latch caught, I stood up from my chair. I didn't holster the weapon; I brought it above the desk, laying it down on the leather blotter with a heavy, deliberate thud.

Elena let out a ragged sob, dropping to her knees on the Persian rug and burying her face in her hands.

I walked around the desk, stopping two feet away from her. I knelt down on one knee, bringing myself level with little Mia, who was staring at me with big, fearless brown eyes.

"Boss Mia," I murmured softly, my heart pounding with a murderous rage I hadn't felt in twenty years. "Look at me."