"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. "

The rain fell in relentless sheets over the jagged cliffs of North Point, pounding against the rusted iron gates of the abandoned St. Jude’s Asylum.

Perched on a high bluff overlooking the black, churning waters of the Atlantic, the sprawling Victorian structure of dark stone and broken glass had been decommissioned thirty years ago—or so the public records claimed.

Three black Bellandi SUVs tore up the winding coastal road, their headlights cutting through the thick wall of coastal fog before coming to a sudden halt near the main archway.

Roman stepped out into the pouring rain, his long coat instantly soaked, his eyes fixed on the towering, decayed facade of the asylum.

Ten of his most elite enforcers stepped out behind him, pulling tactical shotguns and automatic rifles from their trunks.

"Hold the perimeter," Roman commanded, racking the slide of his pistol. "Nobody comes up this road. Nobody leaves this building."

"Boss, let us breach first," Marco urged, stepping in front of him with a heavy tactical shield. "This place is a maze. If it's a trap—"

"It is a trap," Roman cut in flatly. "And I'm walking into it alone."

"Sir!"

"Stay outside, Marco. That's an order."

Without waiting for a reply, Roman kicked through the rotting wooden doors of the main entrance, stepping into the cavernous reception hall.

The air inside smelled of damp mold, salt air, and old decay. Water dripped rhythmically from the collapsed plaster ceiling, creating echoing splashes across the broken tile floor.

Roman held his flashlight in his left hand and his gun in his right, his eyes sweeping the long, dark corridor stretching into the belly of the building.

"Isabella!" his voice boomed through the empty halls, bouncing off the damp stone walls. "I'm here!"

Silence answered him—followed by the faint sound of a music box playing a slow, melancholic lullaby from somewhere on the upper floor.

Roman recognized the tune instantly.

It was Brahms' Lullaby—the exact song his father used to play on the old gramophone in his study when Roman was a boy.

Roman followed the sound, his boots clicking softly against the rusted iron stairs leading up to the third floor—the high-security ward.

He passed row after row of rusted cell doors, their heavy iron bars eaten away by decades of salt air.

At the very end of the hall, inside a corner cell illuminated by the soft light of a single kerosene lamp, sat a woman on a wooden bench.

Little Emma was sitting beside her, resting her head peacefully against the woman's lap, sound asleep.

The woman was slowly turning the crank of a small, antique wooden music box.

Roman stopped ten feet away outside the open cell door, his weapon raised, his breath catching in his throat.

The woman slowly stopped turning the crank. The music faded into silence.

She lifted her head, looking at him through the dim amber light.

Her hair was silver, streak-lined with white, but her face—though weathered by decades of isolation—possessed an aristocratic, terrifying elegance.

"You have your father's eyes, Roman," Isabella Bellandi said softly, her voice raspy, like dry leaves scraping across concrete. "Cold. Suspicious. Always looking for the knife in the dark."

Roman didn't lower his gun. "Where have you been for twenty-three years?"