Elena Moretti POV:
The afternoon sun poured through the glass ceiling of the Long Island estate’s sunroom, casting sharp, geometric shadows across the marble floor.
Five-year-old Leo sat on a high-backed velvet chair. He wore a custom-tailored black suit that matched Dante's perfectly. His dark hair was neatly styled, and his deep blue eyes were fixed intensely on the wooden chessboard in front of him. For a child his age, his gaze held a terrifying, cold intelligence.
Sitting across from my son was an elderly, white-haired man. He was a senior member of the Mafia Commission, a man who commanded thousands of men. He slouched in his chair, looking incredibly bored and arrogant, clearly viewing this game as a tedious chore to please the boss.
The elder sighed, reached out, and carelessly pushed his white pawn forward.
Leo didn't hesitate for a fraction of a second. His small hand darted out, picking up his black knight. He slammed the piece down, capturing the pawn and knocking it off the board.
I stood a few feet away, leaning against a marble pillar, holding a glass of red wine. A slow, proud smile curved my lips.
Ten minutes later, the entire dynamic of the board had shifted.
The elder’s arrogant posture vanished. He sat up straight, beads of cold sweat forming on his wrinkled forehead. He stared at the board in horror. Every single escape route for his king was blocked.
Leo picked up his black queen. He moved it across the board and slammed it down on the fatal square. The piece hit the wood with a sharp, echoing *clack*.
Leo looked the old man dead in the eye. "Checkmate. You lose." His voice was high-pitched but laced with absolute, chilling authority.
The elder gasped, falling back against his chair. His face turned a sickly shade of purple from the sheer humiliation of being intellectually dismantled by a five-year-old.
I stepped forward, my heels clicking against the marble. I looked down at the elder with cold disdain. "The heir to the Moretti empire does not need useless sparring partners. You are dismissed."
The old man scrambled to his feet. He bowed deeply, his face burning with shame, and practically ran out of the sunroom.
The doors opened again. Dante walked in, wearing a fitted black dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, exposing the dark ink of his tattoos. He clapped his hands twice, his eyes burning with a wild, fanatical pride as he looked at his son.
Dante walked to the table and scooped Leo up with one massive arm.
"Mind games are over, Leo," Dante said, his voice a deep rumble. "Now it’s time for the basement. Real men's training."
Ten minutes later, we were in the estate’s underground, soundproofed shooting range.
Dante stood behind Leo. He took a heavy, black Beretta 9mm handgun—with the firing pin removed for safety—and placed it directly into Leo’s small hands.
The sheer weight of the steel caused Leo’s wrists to dip immediately. But Leo didn't complain. He bit his lower lip, his knuckles turning white as he strained his muscles to hold the weapon steady. He had my stubbornness and Dante’s bloodlust running through his veins.
Dante wrapped his large hands over Leo’s, correcting his grip. There was no gentle fatherly coddling in his voice. "In this world, Leo, people will lie to you. They will betray you. Only the gun in your hand and absolute power will never betray you. Understand?"
"Yes, Papa," Leo grunted, his arms shaking slightly.
I stood behind the thick, bulletproof glass observation window, watching them with absolute calm.
The door behind me opened. My private physician, a calm and intelligent man who had patched up my scars years ago, walked up beside me. He held a medical file in his hands.
He looked through the glass and frowned. "Elena, his skeletal structure is still developing. Holding that much weight and dealing with recoil could cause micro-fractures in his wrists."
I didn't take my eyes off my son. "If he isn't strong enough to handle the weight now, Doctor, it won't be his bones that break in the future. It will be his life. I was weak once. My son will never know what that feels like."
The doctor fell silent. He looked at the hard, unyielding lines of my profile, realizing that any trace of the victim I used to be was long dead.
Inside the range, Dante pulled the slide back and slipped the firing pin into place. He loaded a single round.
"Pull," Dante commanded.
Leo squeezed the trigger. *Bang!*
The massive recoil pushed Leo backward. Dante’s hands caught his shoulders, keeping him upright. The bullet tore through the paper target, hitting the outer ring.
Leo didn't cry from the shock. He lowered the smoking gun, his eyes widening as a wild, excited fire ignited in his pupils.
Dante chuckled, a dark, proud sound. He ruffled Leo’s hair, then turned his head and looked straight through the bulletproof glass at me. We exchanged a look of pure, shared ambition. We were building a monster.
A new, more terrifying tyrant is being born.
