A four-year-old girl innocently whispered, “Mr. Moretti…

The mansion was silent when Allesandro returned.

The heavy iron gates swung shut behind his car with a muffled thud. He walked through the grand marble foyer, past the silent portraits of ancestors who had built their fortunes on blood and iron, and climbed the sweeping staircase toward the second floor.

The west wing was dark. The door to the nursery stood slightly ajar.

He pushed it open with two fingers.

The room was bathed in the soft, amber glow of a star-shaped night-light plugged into the baseboard. The radiator ticked softly in the corner, keeping the chill of the city night at bay.

Lily was asleep in her small white bed. Her long, blonde hair was splayed out across the pillow, her breathing deep, even, and entirely untroubled. The ruined, gutted doll lay in the trash bin downstairs, replaced by a row of neatly aligned porcelain rabbits that looked innocent, harmless, and completely ordinary.

Allesandro walked quietly across the thick carpet. He pulled the pink woolen blanket up over her small shoulders, tucking it gently beneath her chin.

For a long moment, he stood there in the quiet dark, watching her chest rise and fall.

The empire he had built was vast, terrifying, and absolute. He had killed men for less than a sideways glance, torn down families for a missed payment, and ruled his corner of the world with an iron fist. But standing there in the stillness of the nursery, looking down at his daughter’s peaceful face, he realized the bitter truth of Julian's words.

Power didn't protect you from the dark. It only invited more monsters into your house.

He reached out, his large, calloused thumb gently brushing a stray lock of hair away from Lily’s forehead. Her tiny hand twitched in her sleep, her fingers curling instinctively around his pinky finger, holding onto him with a fierce, unquestioning trust.