Chapter 10 - A NEW MORNINGThree months later.
The spring sun warmed the stone courtyard of the Citadel, turning the harbor waters into a sparkling sheet of gold. The industrial district was quiet—cleaned out, restructured, and firmly under the absolute, benevolent protection of Alfred Christa.
Inside the master study, the heavy oak doors stood wide open to let the fresh breeze in.
At the obsidian desk, Alfred sat looking over a shipping manifest. But he wasn't alone.
Curled up on the leather sofa, fast asleep with her head resting in the lap of a plush velvet pillow, was Mila. Her cheeks were full and rosy, her dark hair neatly brushed, wearing a brand-new mustard-yellow sweater that was far warmer than the old one.
At her feet, snoring softly, was Bruno, now a healthy, well-fed terrier with a shiny coat and a permanent spot of honor beside the King of the Underworld.
A soft knock sounded at the door. Viktor stepped in, holding a small, neatly wrapped package.
— Boss, mail delivery. Came from the federal witness protection office.
Alfred looked up. — What is it?
Viktor set the package on the desk. Alfred sliced it open with his pocketknife. Inside was a small, handwritten card and a faded photograph.
The photograph showed Julian Vance and his wife smiling in a sunlit garden, holding a very young Mila between them. On the back, written in clean, elegant handwriting, were the words:
“Thank you for keeping the light burning. She is safe, and so is her future. Rest in peace, knowing the world knows the truth.”
Alfred stared at the photograph for a long moment. A rare, genuine smile touched his lips—soft, quiet, permanent.
He closed the card, slid it into his desk drawer beside the titanium key, and leaned back in his leather chair.
Outside, the city hummed with life. Inside, the dark alleyways where children slept on trash felt a little further away.
Alfred Christa ruled the underworld. But as he looked down at the little girl sleeping peacefully in his fortress, he knew one thing for certain:
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Some wars aren't won with guns.
They’re won by the people you choose to let in.
