"A Three-Year-Old Came Knocking at the Mafia Boss’s Bedroom at Midnight—But the Name She Whispered Was the Same Name His Father Had Ordered Everyone to Forget. "

Roman tore out of the sealed bedroom like an engine ignited, his heavy leather coat billowing behind him as he vaulted down the grand marble staircase two steps at a time.

"Status!" he barked into his lapel microphone, drawing his black SIG Sauer 9mm from his shoulder holster.

"Primary power to the west wing basement went dark thirty seconds ago!" Luca yelled from behind, his footsteps thundering down the corridor. "Emergency generators aren't kicking in—someone bridged the relays with a copper wire!"

"If anyone touches that girl, I'll hang them from the front gates," Roman growled, rounding the final landing toward the heavy steel security doors of the lower safe room.

The basement corridor was plunged into suffocating darkness, illuminated only by the pulsing red emergency lights along the baseboards.

The two guards stationed outside the safe room were slumped against the concrete wall.

Roman dropped to his knee, checking the neck pulse of the first guard. His skin was warm, his heart beating steadily. A tiny blue mark—a high-potency tranquilizer dart—was embedded in the side of his neck.

"Surgical," Roman muttered, plucking the dart out. "Non-lethal. Whoever came down here didn't come to kill."

He slammed his hand against the mechanical manual release of the safe room door. The iron deadbolts retracted with a heavy hydraulic hiss, and Roman kicked the door open.

Inside, the backup battery lights cast an eerie orange glow over the room.

The three female guards were also unconscious on the floor, knocked out by the same tranquilizer darts.

On the leather sofa in the corner, little Emma was gone.

The room was completely empty—except for her worn stuffed rabbit, which had been placed neatly on the center coffee table.

Glanted beneath the rabbit was a small, white envelope.

Roman walked over, his face transformed into a mask of pure, lethal frost. He picked up the envelope, unsealed it, and pulled out a single glossy photograph.

It was a screenshot from a high-definition security camera, stamped with a timestamp from three minutes ago.

It showed the rear service exit of the Bellandi estate.

A tall, slender woman dressed in a rain-drenched dark trench coat was walking through the open iron gate, holding little Emma’s hand. The child was looking up at the woman, trusting her completely.

The woman’s face was turned slightly toward the security camera, as if she knew it was watching.

Though she was thinner, her pale face lined with age and decades of suffering, her dark eyes were unmistakable.

It was Isabella Bellandi.

And written in red lipstick across the bottom of the photograph were six words:

Bring the book to St. Jude’s.

Luca burst into the safe room, gun raised, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He took one look at the empty sofa, then at the photo in Roman's hand.

"Boss... who is she?" Luca asked, his voice trembling. "How did she get past fifty armed men without firing a single shot?"

Roman slid the photograph into his coat pocket beside his father’s hidden notebook.

"She didn't get past them, Luca," Roman said softly, his voice dangerously low. "She built this house. She designed the security protocols twenty-five years ago with my father."