Mia pressed the plastic silver disc against Antonio Moretti’s chest. “Are you hurt, mister?”

The rain began at midnight, pouring down in heavy, relentless sheets that rattled against the stained-glass windows of the Moretti study. Inside, the fire in the stone fireplace was dying, leaving dark red embers glowing in the dim, shadowed room.

Antonio sat behind his heavy mahogany desk, a glass of dark amber whiskey sitting untouched beside a thick leather-bound ledger. Across from him sat Damian, who was casually swirling a glass of ice water, his eyes flicking toward the window every time lightning flashed across the sky.

"The docks are secure," Damian said smoothly, setting his glass down with a light clink. "Costa tried to move three crates through Pier 14, but our men intercepted the trucks. He lost half a million dollars in contraband tonight."

Antonio didn't answer. He was staring at the wall across the room—specifically at a small framed pencil drawing hanging right next to a multi-million-dollar Italian oil painting. It was Mia’s drawing of the tall figure in black, the little figure in red, and the blue heart between them. He had framed it himself earlier that evening.

Damian followed his gaze, his eyes narrowing imperceptibly.

"You're distracted, Antonio," Damian said, his voice dropping into a stern, reprimanding tone. "This business requires absolute focus. Costa isn't going to crawl into a hole because he lost three trucks. He’s looking for a opening."

"Let him look," Antonio said coldly, finally shifting his eyes to his cousin. "Costa is a dog who barks loudest when he’s starving. He doesn't have the strength to push past the river."

"He doesn't need strength if he finds a backdoor," Damian countered, leaning forward over the desk. "You're letting that maid and her child run wild through this house, Antonio. The fourth floor door was unlocked today. I saw her walking near Leo’s room."

Antonio’s posture instantly shifted. His hands rested flat on the desk, his knuckles turning white. "You were watching my floor?"

"I am watching your back," Damian spat back, his voice tight with calculated emotion. "It’s my job to protect you! Five years ago, you trusted the wrong people, and Leo paid the price! Are you going to repeat the same mistake with a maid you hired off the street three weeks ago?"

"Elena Rossi has nothing to do with Costa or my business," Antonio warned, his voice dangerously low. "She is an employee."

"She is an unexpected variable!" Damian snapped, standing up from his chair. "A woman with a child in this house makes you look soft, Antonio! The capos are talking! They see you coming home early, they see toys in the hallway, and they wonder if the Dawn has lost his edge!"

Antonio stood up slowly, his towering six-foot-three frame casting a long, dark shadow across the desk. "Let them wonder. And if any capo has a question about my edge, tell him to come ask me himself in this room."

Damian held his breath for two seconds, recognizing the dangerous edge in Antonio’s tone. He stepped back, raising his hands in a fake gesture of surrender. "I’m only thinking of the family, Antonio. You know I would give my life for this bloodline."

"I know, Damian," Antonio said quietly, though his eyes remained sharp as flint. "Leave the papers. I'm going upstairs."

Damian picked up his leather coat, offered a brief nod, and walked out of the study, his leather shoes clicking against the marble floor of the hallway.

Ten minutes later, Damian’s black Mercedes pulled out of the estate gates and headed south into the pouring rain. He drove through the slick streets of Manhattan, turning into an industrial alleyway near the East River docks in Queens.

He pulled into the subterranean garage of an abandoned meatpacking plant. The air smelled of rust, old salt, and wet concrete. Waiting beside a dark SUV stood Vittorio Costa—a short, stocky man in his sixties with a thick grey mustache and pockmarked cheeks, flanked by two heavily armed guards.

Damian stepped out of his car, pulling his collar up against the damp chill.

"You're late, Damian," Costa grunted, spitting a cigar butt onto the floor. "My trucks were seized at Pier 14 tonight. Your men took three million in gear."

"That was Antonio’s order, not mine," Damian said coldly, pulling a manila envelope from inside his coat. "If I had stopped him from taking those trucks, he would have suspected my loyalty. You know how paranoid he is."

Costa grunted, taking the envelope from Damian’s hands. He pulled out the contents—photographs of Elena Rossi leaving her small apartment in Brooklyn, photographs of Mia playing in the park, and detailed schedules of Elena’s work hours at the Moretti estate.

"Who is the girl?" Costa asked, squinting at the photos under the dim yellow garage light.

"Her name is Elena Rossi. She’s the housekeeper," Damian said, a cold, vicious smile touching his lips. "The little girl is Mia. Antonio has spent the last two weeks drawing pictures with her on the kitchen floor."

Costa’s eyebrows shot up in genuine shock. "The Dawn? Playing with a kid?"

"He's weak, Vittorio," Damian said, his voice dripping with venom. "Just like he was five years ago. He’s bleeding from an old wound, and that little girl is making him remember what it felt like to be a father."

Costa looked up from the photos, his eyes gleaming with greedy malice. "So we take the maid’s kid? Use her to force Antonio to sign over the shipping routes?"

"No," Damian said, stepping closer to Costa, his voice dropping into a dark whisper. "Taking the kid isn't enough. Antonio needs to be completely destroyed this time. You're going to use the kid to draw Antonio out to the docks—unarmed, without his main guard."

Costa narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "And what do you get out of this, Damian? He’s your cousin. Your blood."

Damian’s face contorted into a mask of pure, bitter hatred. "My blood? Antonio’s father took everything from my branch of the family thirty years ago. I spent five years orchestrating the hit that was supposed to kill Antonio in that winter ambush—and the bastard survived while his brat took the bullet!"

Costa gasped slightly, realizing the sheer depth of the betrayal standing before him. "You set up the ambush five years ago?"

"Yes," Damian spat, his teeth grinding together. "And now I’m going to finish what I started. You take the maid and the kid. Antonio will come running like a dog. When he's dead, I take over the Moretti family, and you get fifty percent of all shipping revenue through the East River forever."

Costa looked down at the photograph of three-year-old Mia holding her toy stethoscope, then looked back at Damian. A slow, dark grin spread across the old mobster’s face.