The heavy iron door clicked shut behind Dr. Vance, echoing through the vaulted corridor like a falling gavel. Lorenzo didn’t look up from his desk. He already knew the verdict before the man spoke. He knew it by the way Vance’s loafers dragged against the imported Persian rug, and by the tight, sterile smell of hand sanitizer the physician carried with him like a shroud.

Lorenzo’s boots made no sound as he rounded the service bend. The heavy fire door leading to the family quarters was supposed to be double-locked at all times, accessible only via biometric scan. Yet, it stood ajar by three inches, held open by a rubber wedge.

Through the gap, a streak of bright blue denim caught the dim light of the hallway.

It was the maid’s toddler, Leo. The boy couldn't have been more than twenty-four months old, his wild curls bouncing as he toddled clumsily across the priceless Italian marble, clutching a plastic red fire truck in one sticky fist. How a toddler had bypassed the biometric scanners, the perimeter alarms, and the armed guards stationed every twenty feet was a question Lorenzo would execute someone for later. Right now, pure, primal territorial rage seized his chest. This was a place of ghosts, blood, and dying royalty. A peasant child had no business tracking dirt into the inner sanctum.

Lorenzo stalked forward, his massive frame blotting out the wall sconces as he towered over the small intruder.

"Hey," Lorenzo growled, his voice a low, vibrating rumble that had made grown men wet themselves.

Leo stopped. He didn't cry. Most children—most adults—burst into tears or froze in absolute terror when Lorenzo Duca looked at them. Instead, the toddler turned around slowly, his large, dark eyes blinking with absolute curiosity. He pointed a chubby index finger straight at Lorenzo’s chest, right over the hidden gun holster.

"Broom," Leo said brightly, offering his plastic fire truck like an offering to a king.

Lorenzo froze. The sheer absurdity of the moment shattered his rage for a fraction of a second. Before he could snatch the boy up by his collar and throw him out into the courtyard, a soft voice drifted down the corridor.

"Leo? Leo, baby, where are you?"

Maria came rushing around the corner, her face pale with terror, a wet dishtowel clutched in her hands. When she saw Lorenzo standing over her grandson like a statue of vengeance, she dropped to her knees on the cold marble, her forehead nearly touching his shoes.

"Mr. Duca! I am so, so sorry, sir!" she sobbed, her hands trembling violently. "I turned my back for two seconds to check the soup. The back gate latch was rusted, it must have—please, don’t hurt him. Take me, do whatever you want to me, but please, please spare the boy. He doesn't know where he is—"

Lorenzo looked down at Maria, then back at the toddler, who was now attempting to park his plastic truck on Lorenzo’s custom leather shoe.

"Get him out of here," Lorenzo said coldly, his voice devoid of inflection. "If he touches this floor again, Maria, you and your family won't just leave the cottage. You'll disappear."

"Yes, sir. Right now, sir. God bless you, sir," Maria stammered, snatching Leo up into her arms.

As she hoisted the boy away, Leo didn't cry. He twisted around in his grandmother's arms, staring past Lorenzo’s shoulder, straight down the long, forbidden hallway toward Lucas’s bedroom door. And then, clearly and distinctly in the quiet corridor, the toddler pointed a chubby finger at the closed door and said one word: