Luca Vitiello POV:

The giant room smelled like pee and old sweat.

It used to be a warehouse, but now it was full of metal beds and angry men. The walls were grey and the air was always cold. I hugged my bear tight against my chest. My bear didn't have a color anymore, just brown dirt, but he was my only friend.

I crouched in the darkest corner of the room, my knees pulled up to my chin. The clothes the police gave me were too big. The sleeves covered my hands. I watched the men walking around. They had angry eyes and mean faces. I was scared.

A loud bell rang. A woman in a yellow vest pushed a big metal cart into the room. It smelled like warm oatmeal.

All the men started yelling. They ran at the cart like hungry dogs.

I stood up, but my legs were slow. I tried to walk to the cart, but a big man with a dirty beard pushed me hard. I fell on the hard floor. My elbows hurt.

By the time I crawled to the front, the big pot was empty. The woman scraped the bottom and put a tiny spoonful of cold, grey mush into my plastic bowl.

I held the bowl with both hands and walked back to my dark corner. I picked up my plastic spoon.

Suddenly, a tall man stood in front of me. He had a long, scary red scar across his cheek.

He lifted his heavy boot and kicked my bowl. The plastic cracked. The oatmeal flew onto the dirty floor.

I screamed. I dropped the spoon and covered my head with my hands, my whole body shaking.

The scarred man laughed. He reached down and snatched my bear from my arms. "Look at the retard playing with toys."

My chest felt hot. That was my bear. I jumped up and threw my hands forward, trying to grab the soft fur.

The man pulled his arm back and punched me right in the middle of my face.

A loud crunch echoed in my head. Pain exploded in my nose. Bright red blood sprayed out, splashing all over my oversized shirt.

I fell backward, hitting the floor. I grabbed my nose, crying out loud. The tears mixed with the hot blood running into my mouth. It tasted like metal.

The man sneered. He held my bear over a big, smelly plastic bucket where people threw their garbage and old food. He dropped my bear into the slop.

The other men in the room pointed at me and laughed. Nobody stopped him. Nobody helped me.

I didn't care about my bleeding nose. I crawled on my hands and knees across the floor. I reached my hands into the disgusting, sour-smelling garbage bucket and pulled my bear out. He was covered in slimy food.

I pulled the wet, smelly bear against my chest, hugging him as hard as I could.

My brain felt fuzzy. I rocked back and forth on the floor. I opened my bloody mouth and started saying the only word that made me feel safe. The word from a long time ago, when a pretty lady used to cook me warm food.

"Elena... Elena..." I mumbled, blood dripping from my chin onto the bear.

A young man wearing glasses and a yellow vest walked over. He yelled at the scarred man to go away.

The young man knelt down and held out a white paper tissue.

I didn't take it. I squeezed my eyes shut and pushed myself backward against the cold wall, shrinking away like a kicked dog.

The young man looked at me. His eyes looked sad. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a black phone. He pointed it at me.

A bright white light flashed in my eyes.

I didn't know what he was doing. I just kept licking the blood off my lip and crying. I didn't know the young man was typing words on his phone. I didn't know he was writing about a forgotten soul in the Chicago winter.

I just closed my eyes and went to sleep in the dark.

The data stream pushed the photo into the network, and the cold gears of fate began to turn.

Mia POV:

The deafening roar of gunfire echoed off the reinforced concrete walls of the Long Island estate's underground tactical room.

I stood in the center of the firing line, wearing a tight black tactical vest over my tank top. I held my custom ivory-handled micro-pistols, one in each hand. My breathing was perfectly steady.

*Bang. Bang. Bang.*

I tracked the high-speed mechanical targets moving erratically across the range. I squeezed the triggers in rapid succession. Ten shots rang out. Ten bullet holes appeared exactly in the dead center of the targets' foreheads. Perfect kill shots.

I lowered the smoking barrels and engaged the safeties. I walked over to the metal bench and picked up my encrypted tablet. It was synced to the Moretti family's secondary intelligence network, scanning global data for potential threats.

I casually scrolled through the flagged alerts.

Suddenly, an image from a Chicago charity organization's Twitter feed popped up on the screen.

My eyes instantly locked onto the photo. My pupils shrank to pinpricks.

I used my thumb and index finger to zoom in. The photo showed a filthy, emaciated man huddled in the corner of a homeless shelter. His nose was broken, blood pouring down his face and staining his oversized clothes. He was desperately hugging a trash-covered teddy bear. The caption read: *Mentally disabled homeless man crying for 'Elena'. Help him.*

I recognized that face. The brain damage and the dirt couldn't hide the bone structure. It was Luca Vitiello.

A violent, blinding flash of memory hit me. I saw the industrial fireworks tearing through the sky. I saw the horrifying, melted skin on Elena's back and chest. I was Elena’s hound. I never forgot the face of anyone who had spilled my master's blood.

Pure, unadulterated killing intent flooded my veins. My fingers gripped the edges of the tablet so hard the plastic casing creaked.

I didn't hesitate. I tapped the screen, bypassing the charity's firewall, and traced the IP upload address directly to a public shelter in the South Side of Chicago.

I grabbed the tablet, turned on my heel, and marched out of the tactical room. I took the private elevator straight to the top floor.

I pushed open the heavy mahogany doors of the study without knocking.

Elena was sitting behind her desk, wearing a silk blouse, elegantly sipping from a cup of black coffee. Her corporate lawyer was standing in front of her, reviewing the latest Washington merger documents.

I walked straight past the lawyer. He immediately shut his mouth, bowed his head, and stepped back into the shadows of the room, knowing better than to interfere with the inner circle.

I placed the tablet flat on the desk, turning the screen so it directly faced Elena.

"Our network flagged this in Chicago thirty minutes ago," I reported, my voice tight with restrained violence. "It’s Luca. Our Chicago informants also confirmed that Matteo died of liver cancer three days ago. His body is in the morgue."

Elena slowly lowered her coffee cup. The porcelain clinked sharply against the saucer.

She lowered her gaze to the glowing screen. She looked at the pathetic, bloody, broken man clinging to a piece of garbage in a room full of monsters.

The air in the study turned into a vacuum. I instinctively rested my hand on the ivory grip of my pistol, my muscles coiled, waiting for the order to fly to Chicago and put a bullet between his eyes.

Elena stared at the photo for exactly five seconds. Her dark eyes were like a bottomless, ancient well. There was not a single ripple of emotion. No anger. No satisfaction. No pity.

She reached out her index finger and casually swiped across the screen, closing the photo and returning the tablet to the home screen.

She picked up her coffee cup and took another slow, elegant sip.

I blinked, slightly thrown off. "Do you want me to fly out and clean up the trash, boss?"

Elena turned her head and looked out the massive window at the sprawling, invincible skyline of New York. Her voice was so calm, so devoid of care, it sent a chill down my spine.

"Death is a release for them, Mia," she said softly. "Living in torment is the best punishment."

She set her cup down. "Take the tablet. Command the intelligence network to permanently block all keywords related to that shelter. Erase them from our servers."

With one sentence, she cut his final lifeline, condemning him to rot in that asylum for the rest of his miserable life.

I bowed my head immediately. "Yes, boss." I picked up the tablet and stepped back.

Elena turned her attention back to the lawyer in the shadows, completely unbothered.

"Leave it alone. It is the fate he deserves. Continue the report."

Elena Moretti POV:

The afternoon sun poured through the glass ceiling of the Long Island estate’s sunroom, casting sharp, geometric shadows across the marble floor.

Five-year-old Leo sat on a high-backed velvet chair. He wore a custom-tailored black suit that matched Dante's perfectly. His dark hair was neatly styled, and his deep blue eyes were fixed intensely on the wooden chessboard in front of him. For a child his age, his gaze held a terrifying, cold intelligence.

Sitting across from my son was an elderly, white-haired man. He was a senior member of the Mafia Commission, a man who commanded thousands of men. He slouched in his chair, looking incredibly bored and arrogant, clearly viewing this game as a tedious chore to please the boss.

The elder sighed, reached out, and carelessly pushed his white pawn forward.

Leo didn't hesitate for a fraction of a second. His small hand darted out, picking up his black knight. He slammed the piece down, capturing the pawn and knocking it off the board.

I stood a few feet away, leaning against a marble pillar, holding a glass of red wine. A slow, proud smile curved my lips.

Ten minutes later, the entire dynamic of the board had shifted.

The elder’s arrogant posture vanished. He sat up straight, beads of cold sweat forming on his wrinkled forehead. He stared at the board in horror. Every single escape route for his king was blocked.

Leo picked up his black queen. He moved it across the board and slammed it down on the fatal square. The piece hit the wood with a sharp, echoing *clack*.

Leo looked the old man dead in the eye. "Checkmate. You lose." His voice was high-pitched but laced with absolute, chilling authority.

The elder gasped, falling back against his chair. His face turned a sickly shade of purple from the sheer humiliation of being intellectually dismantled by a five-year-old.

I stepped forward, my heels clicking against the marble. I looked down at the elder with cold disdain. "The heir to the Moretti empire does not need useless sparring partners. You are dismissed."

The old man scrambled to his feet. He bowed deeply, his face burning with shame, and practically ran out of the sunroom.

The doors opened again. Dante walked in, wearing a fitted black dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, exposing the dark ink of his tattoos. He clapped his hands twice, his eyes burning with a wild, fanatical pride as he looked at his son.

Dante walked to the table and scooped Leo up with one massive arm.

"Mind games are over, Leo," Dante said, his voice a deep rumble. "Now it’s time for the basement. Real men's training."

Ten minutes later, we were in the estate’s underground, soundproofed shooting range.

Dante stood behind Leo. He took a heavy, black Beretta 9mm handgun—with the firing pin removed for safety—and placed it directly into Leo’s small hands.

The sheer weight of the steel caused Leo’s wrists to dip immediately. But Leo didn't complain. He bit his lower lip, his knuckles turning white as he strained his muscles to hold the weapon steady. He had my stubbornness and Dante’s bloodlust running through his veins.

Dante wrapped his large hands over Leo’s, correcting his grip. There was no gentle fatherly coddling in his voice. "In this world, Leo, people will lie to you. They will betray you. Only the gun in your hand and absolute power will never betray you. Understand?"

"Yes, Papa," Leo grunted, his arms shaking slightly.

I stood behind the thick, bulletproof glass observation window, watching them with absolute calm.

The door behind me opened. My private physician, a calm and intelligent man who had patched up my scars years ago, walked up beside me. He held a medical file in his hands.

He looked through the glass and frowned. "Elena, his skeletal structure is still developing. Holding that much weight and dealing with recoil could cause micro-fractures in his wrists."

I didn't take my eyes off my son. "If he isn't strong enough to handle the weight now, Doctor, it won't be his bones that break in the future. It will be his life. I was weak once. My son will never know what that feels like."

The doctor fell silent. He looked at the hard, unyielding lines of my profile, realizing that any trace of the victim I used to be was long dead.

Inside the range, Dante pulled the slide back and slipped the firing pin into place. He loaded a single round.

"Pull," Dante commanded.

Leo squeezed the trigger. *Bang!*

The massive recoil pushed Leo backward. Dante’s hands caught his shoulders, keeping him upright. The bullet tore through the paper target, hitting the outer ring.

Leo didn't cry from the shock. He lowered the smoking gun, his eyes widening as a wild, excited fire ignited in his pupils.

Dante chuckled, a dark, proud sound. He ruffled Leo’s hair, then turned his head and looked straight through the bulletproof glass at me. We exchanged a look of pure, shared ambition. We were building a monster.

A new, more terrifying tyrant is being born.