A Barefoot Toddler Walked Past Thirty-Eight Guards and Fell Asleep on a Mafia Boss — Then Her Rabbit's Watch Reopened His Father's Grave

Anthony Romano looked like a ghost carved from parchment. His hair was long, white, and matted; his cheeks were sunken, and his collarbones jutted sharply beneath thin, translucent skin. But as Damian’s boots crunched across the spent brass casings on the floor, the old man’s eyelids fluttered open.

The eyes were intact. Fierce, dark, and lucid.

Anthony stared at the broad-shouldered man standing over him in an immaculate, blood-spattered overcoat. For a moment, neither spoke. The silence of the warehouse swallowed the groans of the wounded men behind them.

"You're late," Anthony rasped, his voice sounding like dry leaves scraping across concrete.

A tear slipped unbidden down Damian’s cheek, cutting a clean path through the gunpowder residue on his skin. He dropped to his knees beside the gurney, his massive hands gently enveloping his father’s frail, skeletal fingers.

"You told me the boathouse was off-limits," Damian choked out, his voice cracking with the grief of an eight-year-old boy who had mourned an empty grave for twenty-two years.

Anthony’s cracked lips curved into a faint, trembling smile. "You never listened to me anyway."

Luca hurried forward, cutting the leather restraints from Anthony’s wrists with a tactical blade. "Boss, he’s in severe shock. Heart rate is erratic. We need to move him now."

Anthony tightened his grip on Damian’s hand with surprising strength. "The girl... Damian. Mia. Did she make it?"

"She’s safe," Damian whispered, leaning close to his father’s chest. "She’s at the manor. She’s sleeping in the master suite. She brought me your watch."

Anthony exhaled a long, shuddering breath, his chest sinking beneath the blanket as if a boulder had finally been lifted from his heart. "She has your mother's stubbornness... and your eyes. Corrado... where is he?"

"In my cellar," Damian said darkly. "Waiting for your judgment."