Chapter 3
The heavy oak doors of the study clicked shut as Rocco Bellandi finally stepped out into the grand foyer. He rolled his broad shoulders beneath his tailored three-piece suit, the physical tension of the Mafia-family meeting slowly draining from his muscles. He checked his luxury wristwatch; it was well past midnight. The estate was eerily quiet, the bright, vivid lights of the chandeliers still blazing, reflecting off the polished marble floors.
Rocco began his ascent up the sweeping, carpeted staircase. His polished leather shoes made no sound, a testament to decades of moving silently through dangerous spaces. As he reached the second-floor landing, his sharp, intimidating eyes scanned the brightly lit residential corridor.
At first, the hallway appeared empty. But as Rocco moved deeper into the wing, toward the bedrooms, a faint, rhythmic sound caught his attention. It was a soft, wet sound—the unmistakable sound of a child trying desperately to suppress his own sobs.
Rocco’s pace quickened, the deeply masculine power of his stride eating up the distance in seconds.
As he rounded the corner toward Ava’s bedroom, his blood instantly turned to ice. There, huddled on the hallway rug, was his three-year-old son. Noah was curled tightly into a ball, his small fair and rosy face buried in his knees, his child’s pajamas trembling violently. In his tiny hands, he maintained a white-knuckled grip on a heavy metal flashlight.
"Noah?" Rocco breathed, the cold, measured cadence of his voice completely abandoned.
He closed the distance instantly, dropping to his knees on the rug. The expensive fabric of his tailored suit pulled tight as he reached out with his large, strong hands. He immediately pulled Noah to his feet, wrapping his arms around the boy’s fragile frame.
Noah gasped, his bright blue eyes wide with residual terror. The moment he recognized the scent of his father’s cologne and the safety of his broad chest, the dam broke entirely.
"Daddy…." Noah sobbed through heavy tears, his tiny voice speaking brokenly between violent, gasping hiccups. "Daddy, I'm sorry... I'm trying to stay awake... I'm trying..."
"What are you talking about?" Rocco asked, his voice dropping into a low, rumbling growl of rising fury. He gently wiped the tears from Noah’s rosy cheeks with his thumb. "Why are you out of bed, Noah? Why are you holding this flashlight?"
"I have to guard the door," Noah cried, burying his face into the crisp fabric of Rocco’s dress shirt, his small hands clutching the heavy suit vest. "She said the monsters would come if I went to sleep."
"Who said this to you?" Rocco demanded softly, though his dark eyes were already scanning the hallway, burning with a lethal, calculating fire. The family signet ring on his hand caught the light as he gently stroked the back of his son’s head.
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"Bianca," Noah whimpered, the name barely audible between his sobs. "She said I have to be the guard dog."
The air in the hallway seemed to freeze. Rocco Bellandi, a veteran Mafia boss who had ruthlessly dismantled rival syndicates without a second thought, felt a singular, explosive surge of homicidal rage detonate within his chest. The bright, vivid colors of the opulent hallway suddenly felt like the walls of a prison, harboring a poison he had blindly invited inside.
