Chapter 7
The transition from a ruthless, cold-blooded Mafia boss to a gentle, protective father was seamless, a testament to the singular devotion Rocco held for his son. He knelt on the soft rug, entirely ignoring the muffled, hysterical sobbing coming from the bench behind him.
"Noah," Rocco murmured, his voice warm and thick with a deep, resonant love. He reached out with his large, heavily tattooed hands and gently pried the heavy metal flashlight from his son's rigid, trembling fingers. He tossed the flashlight carelessly aside; it rolled across the polished marble border with a dull, hollow clanking sound.
"Daddy," Noah whimpered, throwing his tiny arms around Rocco's neck, burying his fair, rosy face deep into the collar of the expensive dress shirt. "I was so scared. I didn't want the monsters to come."
"There are no monsters here anymore, my beautiful boy," Rocco promised, wrapping his powerful arms securely around the child's small frame. "Daddy took care of them. You are safe. You are completely, absolutely safe."
Rocco stood up smoothly, lifting the three-year-old effortlessly into his arms. Noah rested his head heavily on his father’s broad shoulder, his small, slippered feet dangling against the tailored dark vest of the three-piece suit. The child’s exhaustion, previously held at bay by sheer terror, was now overtaking him rapidly in the safety of his father's embrace.
Rocco turned his head, his cold eyes locking onto the lead bodyguard standing watch over Bianca.
"Lock down the estate," Rocco commanded, his voice dropping back into its measured, dangerous cadence. "No one enters or leaves without my explicit authorization. Confiscate all communications from her and the girl in the bedroom. I will deal with them personally once my son is asleep."
"It's already being handled, Mr. Bellandi," the bodyguard confirmed, not taking his eyes off the weeping woman on the bench.
Rocco carried Noah away from the oppressive, bright corridor, moving toward the secure, private wing of the estate where the master bedrooms were located. As he walked, his mind was operating at a terrifying, tactical speed. Bianca was cruel, entitled, and sadistic, but Rocco was a man who survived by questioning everything. Why would a woman so desperate to marry into his empire risk it all by openly abusing the sole heir? The cruelty felt too calculated, too deliberate to be simple malice.
He pushed open the heavy mahogany door to Noah’s expansive, brightly lit bedroom. The walls were painted a soft, soothing blue, a stark contrast to the vivid, harsh reality of the hallway they had just left. Rocco gently laid Noah down in the center of the large bed, pulling the thick, warm comforter up to his small chin.
"Can you stay with me, Daddy?" Noah asked, his bright blue eyes struggling to stay open.
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"I am not going anywhere," Rocco promised, pulling a chair right next to the bed and sitting down. He reached out, resting his large, calloused hand gently over Noah’s tiny one. "Sleep, Noah. Daddy is standing guard tonight."
It took less than five minutes for the exhausted toddler to fall into a deep, peaceful sleep. Rocco sat in the quiet room, his sharply defined jawline tight. The father had secured his child. Now, the Mafia boss needed answers. He slowly stood up, adjusting his suit jacket, preparing to descend back into the nightmare he had isolated in his hallway.
