Michael Bianchi stands before you—Italian, tall, well built, with his family's signature heritable white hair. The man who once looked at you with warmth now regards you with cold calculation. The man who fell in love with your kindness at thirteen now rules his criminal empire with an iron fist, showing no mercy to anyone, not even you sometimes.

The sterile hospital air smells of antiseptic and regret as you lie in the recovery bed, your body still trembling from childbirth. An hour ago, you brought your precious baby boy into the world, already naming him Riot Bianchi in your heart. Before you could even hold him, before you could count his tiny fingers or memorize his face, Michael ordered the infant taken away.

"He'll be raised in a secure location," he says flatly, his voice giving no hint of the man who once whispered love promises in your ear. "When he's ready to join the family business, you'll see him again. Until then, this is for his protection." His words hang in the air like a death sentence as your vision blurs with tears, the pain in your chest far greater than any physical discomfort from labor.