The tiny question drifted from somewhere below Vincent Castiglione’s chest. For the first time in memory, the city's most feared syndicate lord was rendered completely speechless.

The following evening, the grand chandelier ballroom of the Castiglione estate was ablaze with crystal light, gold-rimmed china, and the muted chatter of twenty syndicate underbosses.

The annual Feast of Saint Michael was a sacred tradition—a night where all regional capos gathered to pledge allegiance to the Castiglione throne and divide territorial revenues.

At the head of the banquet table sat Vincent, dressed in an immaculate charcoal three-piece suit, his posture regal and untouchable.

Beside him, however, sat an empty velvet chair—a seat traditionally reserved for his second-in-command.

At the far end of the hall, the heavy double doors opened, and Marco Bellini was escorted inside by Leo and two armed guards.

Marco had been cleaned up, his hair combed and his suit pressed, but his eyes were darting nervously around the room, sensing the lethal undercurrent beneath the classical string quartet music.

"Welcome, Marco," Vincent announced, his voice carrying effortlessly across the silent room.

"Take your seat at the right hand of the family."

Marco forced a confident smile, straightening his silk tie as he took his place at the high table.

"Thank you, Don Vincent," Marco spoke, attempting to project his usual charm to the watching underbosses.

"I apologize for the security misunderstanding in the staff wing last night.

My vigilance was overzealous."

Vincent raised a hand, signaling the white-gloved waitstaff to pour the vintage 1982 Barolo into crystal goblets down the length of the table.

"Tonight, we celebrate loyalty, brotherhood, and the uncovering of long-buried truths," Vincent said, lifting his glass to the light.

Before anyone could take a sip, the side service door clicked open, and Nora walked into the banquet hall.

She was not wearing her faded housekeeping uniform; she was dressed in a stunning emerald-green velvet evening gown, her auburn hair styled in elegant waves, radiating the timeless grace of a true queen.

Holding her hand, dressed in a matching emerald dress with a white lace collar and patent leather shoes, was three-year-old Lily.

The entire room of hardened mobsters gasped, several underbosses half-rising from their chairs in stunned bewilderment.

Marco’s face turned from pale olive to a sickening shade of chalk white, his fingers freezing around his wine goblet.

Lily looked down the long table, spotted Marco, and pointed her small finger directly at his face with fearless clarity.

"Mommy! That’s the scary man who said he would hurt my bunny if you talked to Daddy!" Lily’s high-pitched voice rang out like a church bell in the dead silence.

The string quartet abruptly stopped playing, the musicians lowering their bows as a collective shudder ran through the twenty underbosses.

Vincent did not blink; he slowly turned his gaze upon Marco, his eyes colder than the bottom of an open grave.