Chapter 4
The bright, natural sunlight reflected harshly off the shattered pieces of ceramic scattered across the stone terrace. Emmett was sobbing openly now, his tiny chest heaving as the thick blackberry juice stained his fair skin and his elegant clothes. He tried to scoop up a handful of the ruined cobbler, but it simply slipped through his small, trembling fingers.
"I'm sorry," Emmett cried to no one in particular, completely overwhelmed by the public humiliation and the destruction of his hard work. "I can fix it."
Before he could reach for another jagged piece of the broken plate, a large, heavily tattooed hand reached down.
Rafael knelt on the hard stone, utterly disregarding his tailored suit trousers. With immense, heartbreaking gentleness, he wrapped his strong fingers around Emmett’s small, sticky wrists. He didn't pull roughly; he just applied enough gentle pressure to stop the boy from cutting his hands on the sharp ceramic shards.
"Stop, Emmett," Rafael commanded softly. His voice, usually a weapon of cold terror, was incredibly warm, laced with a fierce, protective paternal love.
Emmett froze. He slowly lifted his head, looking up through thick, wet eyelashes. Large tears carved clean paths through the sticky fruit juice smeared on his rosy cheeks. He saw his father’s handsome, angular face hovering just inches from his own.
"Daddy…" Emmett sobbed, his voice breaking into a high-pitched hiccup. He looked down at the ruined mess on the ground, profoundly ashamed. "I made them myself. I wanted to give them a present."
Rafael became completely still.
The words hit the veteran Mafia boss harder than any bullet ever could. The sheer, unadulterated innocence of his son, met with the vile, repulsive cruelty of his own bloodline, triggered something ancient and apocalyptic inside him. Rafael looked at the tiny, sticky hands of his child, then looked at the dark stains ruining the boy's clothes.
"I know you did, my perfect boy," Rafael whispered. His volume was incredibly low, but it vibrated with a terrifying intensity. "You did... a beautiful job."
"But she broke it," Emmett cried, leaning forward and burying his wet, stained face into the crisp white fabric of Rafael’s open dress shirt.
Rafael didn't care about the stain. He wrapped his massive arms around his son, pulling the three-year-old tightly against his chest. He held the boy with one arm, his hand resting protectively against the back of Emmett’s head.
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"Do not cry over... broken things," Rafael murmured, his lips resting against his son’s hair. The slow, controlled pauses in his speech returned, but now they carried a lethal, chilling promise. "We do not... fix them. We replace them."
Rafael slowly lifted his head, his cold, intimidating eyes rising from the stone floor to fix upon the women sitting at the banquet table. The charming, romantic look of the loose hair falling over his forehead was starkly juxtaposed against the absolute, murderous intent burning behind his gaze.
