The Mafia Boss Pretended to Sleep Because He Trusted No One...

The shade beneath the ancient oak tree on the eastern lawn of the Moretti estate was dark and cool, smelling of damp soil and fallen leaves.

Alessandro lay perfectly still on the iron garden bench. His eyes were half-closed, his dark gray gaze fixed on the small girl sleeping peacefully across his chest. Her small hand still rested over the outline of his concealed Sig Sauer 9mm pistol beneath his coat.

He had not moved an inch for twenty minutes.

To a man whose life was dictated by constant vigilance, every second spent motionless felt like an eternity. Yet, looking down at the soft brown curls pressing against his lapel, an unfamiliar sense of quiet settled over him.

A soft rustle of grass sounded near the edge of the stone path.

A young woman in a modest dark blue maid's uniform stepped around the trunk of the oak tree. Her face was pale, her breathing hurried as her dark eyes scanned the lawn. When her gaze fell upon the feared Don of New York lying on the bench with her daughter sleeping on his chest, all the air left her lungs.

"Mia!" the woman gasped in a desperate, hushed whisper, clutching a linen cleaning rag to her chest.

Alessandro slowly raised a single finger to his lips, signaling absolute quiet.

The young woman—Lia, the new maid hired three weeks prior after Carlo had vetted the domestic staff—froze in her tracks. Terror washed over her face. She dropped to her knees right there on the grass, bowing her head, her hands trembling uncontrollably.

"Mr. Moretti... please forgive her..." Lia wept softly, keeping her voice as low as possible. "I was cleaning the second-floor library... I turned my back for thirty seconds to change the water bucket and she slipped out the terrace door... Please, sir... she's only three... she doesn't know who you are..."

Alessandro did not answer immediately. He looked down at the child, who shifted slightly against his chest, her small mouth opening with a tiny sigh.

"She didn't hurt anything," Alessandro said quietly, his deep, raspy voice carefully modulated so as not to startle the child. "Get up, Lia."

Lia stood up slowly, her legs shaking beneath her uniform skirt. She took three cautious steps forward, reaching out with trembling arms to lift her daughter from Alessandro’s chest.

"Mama...?" Mia murmured, her hazel eyes fluttering open.

The little girl didn't reach for her mother immediately. Instead, she rubbed her small eyes with the back of her fist, turned her head, and looked directly into Alessandro’s cold gray eyes.

She didn't flinch. She didn't shrink away.

Instead, Mia leaned closer to Alessandro’s ear. Her tiny hand reached up and gently touched the silver pocket watch sticking out of his breast pocket.

"The clock man," Mia whispered softly into Alessandro’s ear, her baby voice carrying a haunting, clear clarity in the silent afternoon air.

Alessandro’s eyes narrowed slightly. "What did you say, little one?"

Mia pointed her small finger toward the grand stone terrace of the main house, where Carlo Ricci stood talking quietly into an encrypted satellite phone.

"The clock man with the silver hair," Mia whispered, leaning her cheek against Alessandro’s shoulder. "He told the mean man on the phone that the clock is running out for Mr. Alessandro. He said the fire starts at nine."

Lia gasped, her face draining of every last drop of color. She grabbed Mia frantically, pulling the child into her arms, backing away from Alessandro as if she had just touched a burning flame.

"Mia, stop! What are you talking about?!" Lia cried, her voice rising in sheer panic. "Mr. Moretti, I swear to God she makes up stories! She hears things on the television—"

Alessandro sat up on the iron bench.

The relaxed posture vanished in a fraction of a second. His broad shoulders squared, his posture turning into a weapon of cold, lethal intent.

"Lia," Alessandro commanded, his voice dropping into a register that made the young mother freeze in place. "Where did she hear him say that?"

"N-nowhere, sir! I swear—"

"Where, Lia?"

Lia trembled violently, tears overflowing down her cheeks. "In... in the primary study... two hours ago. I sent Mia to sit in the corner behind the velvet curtains while I dusted the books. Mr. Carlo came in. He was on the phone. He didn't see her behind the curtain..."

Alessandro stood up. He did not look at Lia or the child. His gray eyes were fixed entirely on Carlo Ricci, who was still standing on the high stone terrace, adjusting his silk tie and looking at his watch.

The watch.

Alessandro pulled his father’s silver pocket watch from his coat. The soft ticking echoed in his hand.

A countdown.

Carlo hadn't brought him coffee after his father's funeral out of loyalty. He had brought it to establish himself as the indispensable right hand. And for fifteen years, Carlo had been measuring every breath Alessandro took, waiting for the precise moment to dismantle the Moretti empire from the inside out.

"Marco," Alessandro said quietly.

Out of the shadows of the nearby stone archway, Marco Bianchi materialized like a ghost, his hand already resting inside his jacket on his sidearm. He had been watching from forty paces away the entire time.