The Santoro estate was a fortress of heavy stone and absolute silence. It sat upon the misty hills of the Langhe, surrounded by rows of ancient nebbiolo vines that bled deep purple juice into the autumn barrels.

In the newly designated north-wing suite, Elena was sitting on the edge of the plush velvet bed, trying to calm Luna. The little girl was still shaken from the previous night's terror, clutching a small woolen rabbit to her chest, her big hazel eyes wide and watchful whenever a floorboard creaked.

A soft, hesitant knock sounded at the heavy oak door.

Elena froze. In the underworld, knocks like that usually brought bad news or final orders. She stood up slowly, smoothing her apron, and pulled the door open.

Standing in the hallway was Matteo Santoro.

Without his dark overcoat, towering in his sharp suit, he looked every bit the feared mafia lord known as Il Marmo. But as his eyes drifted past Elena to the small child sitting on the bed, the severe lines of his face softened imperceptibly.

"Signor Santoro," Elena breathed, dipping her head in immediate deference. "We... we were packing our things. We thought you would want us gone after what happened. We put your estate in danger—"

"You are staying," Matteo interrupted, his voice steady and absolute.

Elena stopped, staring up at him. "Sir?"

Matteo stepped past her into the room. He didn't look at Elena; his attention was entirely fixed on Luna. The little girl stared back at him, her lower lip trembling slightly before she slowly offered a tiny, cautious wave.

Matteo walked over to a small mahogany side table where Luna’s crayon drawings were scattered. He picked up a piece of paper—a crude, brightly colored drawing of a sun, a cat, and a tall man wearing a very large black suit.

He stared at the drawing for a long moment. Then, very slowly, he crouched down until he was at eye level with the child.

"Can you tell me..." Matteo began, his voice rough and unfamiliar as he struggled to soften its cadence, "...why the man in this picture has no smile?"

Luna tilted her head, studying his pale, unsmiling face. Then, she reached out, her small, warm fingers timidly touching the lapel of his expensive Milanese suit.

"Because he forgot how," Luna whispered innocently.

Matteo’s breath hitched in his throat. He closed his eyes for a fraction of a second, feeling the old armor around his heart crack just a little more. When he opened them, he reached into his inner pocket and pulled out a small, smooth river stone—gray and polished by the water, cool to the touch.