Angelo Castellano sat in his custom wheelchair beside an untouched dinner tray, only for three-year-old Noah Carter to carefully climb onto the footrest and lift a water cup with both tiny hands

The private recovery wing of the Castellano estate was flooded with brilliant, unrelenting sunlight. The massive, floor-to-ceiling windows allowed the bright, cinematic daylight to wash over the pristine white floors, eliminating any trace of a dull or yellow tint. The vivid colors of the room were sharp and natural, highlighting the stark contrast between the immaculate medical equipment and the dark, brooding presence of the man in the center of the space. Angelo Castellano, thirty years old and the undisputed head of the family, sat in a custom black wheelchair. He was breathtakingly handsome, possessing the rugged, deeply masculine features of a movie star. His thick, slightly wavy hair was slicked back, though a few loose strands fell across his forehead, casting a charming yet dangerous shadow over his cold, sharp eyes.

Despite being paralyzed from the waist down after a brutal ambush, his upper body remained fiercely powerful beneath his tailored dark shirt. The sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing fair, rosy skin and the edges of refined, sharp tattoos on his hands and fingers. Beside his wheelchair rested a silver tray holding a completely untouched dinner.

"I don't have an appetite, Vincent," Angelo said, his American accent a low, measured rumble that echoed in the quiet room. "Take the tray away. I told you I wanted to be left alone."

"You need to keep your strength up, Boss," the bodyguard replied gently from the doorway. "The doctors were very specific about your nutritional intake."

"The doctors don't run this syndicate," Angelo retorted, his sharp jawline tightening. "Leave me."

Before the guard could argue, a tiny figure slipped past him into the bright room. Three-year-old Noah Carter, dressed in a simple sweater, trousers, and clean little sneakers, toddled toward the imposing Mafia boss. His fair, rosy cheeks were flushed with innocent determination. He ignored the tension in the room and carefully climbed his way up onto the heavy metal footrest of Angelo’s custom wheelchair.

Using both of his tiny hands, Noah lifted a plastic water cup from the tray. He leaned forward, holding the colorful straw directly toward Angelo’s lips.

"Mr. Angelo… you need water," Noah said softly, his crisp American accent ringing with undeniable sweetness.

Angelo stared at the boy, his cold, intimidating eyes softening for a fraction of a second. Before he could speak, the heavy double doors of the recovery wing flew open. Dominic Castellano, Angelo’s forty-one-year-old cousin and acting capo, stormed into the room. Wearing an expensive tailored suit, his fair face was twisted into a scowl.

"What the hell is going on in here?" Dominic barked. He marched forward and violently knocked the cup from Noah’s tiny hands. Water splashed across the bright, pristine floor. Dominic then reached out and grabbed Noah’s mother, Emma, a twenty-seven-year-old estate maid, roughly by the back of her professional uniform.