Chapter 1
The private holiday gala was held in the grand gallery of a Mafia-owned railway museum, bathed in bright, cinematic lighting that brought the vivid colors of the room to life. There was no artificial warmth to the illumination, just pure, crisp white light that reflected off the polished marble floors and the expansive glass display cases. At the center of the room sat a massive, waist-high model-railway exhibit, a breathtakingly detailed landscape filled with miniature stations, sprawling tracks, tiny foam trees, and meticulously crafted buildings. The room buzzed with the low, sophisticated hum of American accents as white American adults—family members, capos, and heavily armed bodyguards—mingled in their finest tailored suits and luxurious formal dresses, their fair and rosy skin glowing under the museum lights.
Four-year-old Theo Venturi broke away from his nanny, his small sneakers padding softly across the plush carpet near the family dinner tables. Dressed in an elegant holiday sweater and crisp trousers, the little boy’s bright eyes were entirely focused on a small, beautifully carved wooden locomotive resting near the edge of the dining spread. He reached his tiny hand out, his fingers stretching eagerly toward the familiar toy.
Suddenly, a sharp, violent motion interrupted him.
Bernadette Venturi, Luciano’s forty-year-old cousin, stood towering over the boy. She wore a luxurious formal dress, heavy diamond jewelry sparkling at her throat and on her fingers. Her face, though beautiful, twisted into a mask of pure, unwarranted malice.
Without a single moment of hesitation, Bernadette violently knocked Theo’s reaching hand away. Before the boy could even register the pain, she drew her hand back and slapped the four-year-old violently across his rosy cheek.
The sharp smack echoed over the polite conversation of the nearby tables.
Theo gasped, the kinetic force of the blow knocking his small frame off balance. He dropped heavily onto the carpet, tears instantly welling in his wide, shocked eyes. He clutched his stinging cheek, a ragged sob tearing from his lungs.
Bernadette did not even look at him. She snatched the wooden locomotive from the table and immediately handed it down to her own seven-year-old son, Felix, who stood beside her in an expensive formal sweater.
"Keep your filthy hands off my son’s things," Bernadette sneered, her voice dripping with contempt as she glared down at the weeping four-year-old on the floor.
"But I was just looking," Theo sobbed, his voice breaking.
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"You don't look at anything unless I tell you to," Bernadette hissed, taking a step closer, her high heels sinking into the carpet. "You are nothing but an entitled little brat. Now get up and get out of my sight before I really give you something to cry about."
Felix held the wooden train, looking down at his younger cousin with a smug, mimicking arrogance. "Yeah, go away, Theo. It's mine now."
