The mansion became quieter after Sofia resigned.

I had never noticed how much sound staff families brought into a building until none remained.

The rule banning children during shifts disappeared.

Not because I wanted children wandering through secured rooms.

Because the original policy had been lazy.

We created emergency childcare reimbursement instead.

Flexible shifts.

Paid family leave.

Nothing revolutionary.

Things legitimate companies had figured out decades before men like me congratulated ourselves for discovering decency.

I also ordered medical-response training for every security employee.

Luca objected.

“Half these guys know trauma care.”

“Bullets.”

“Yes.”

“Apparently nobody knew allergies.”

Fair.

EpiPens went into secured, clearly marked cabinets in multiple rooms.

Nobody could remove one without generating an electronic access record.

The bookshelf came down.

Not because I feared cameras.

Because every time I looked at it, I remembered Emma kneeling beside me while six adults panicked.

Enzo, my house manager, protested.

“It was imported walnut.”

“It was also apparently a surveillance platform.”

“That is not the wood’s fault.”

He had a point.

We moved it.

I made other changes too.

Raffaele’s temporary-control clause was removed from the governance structure.

No one person could take emergency command because a doctor signed a piece of paper.

Independent directors gained authority.

Medical incapacity required multiple physicians.

Asset sales above defined thresholds required outside approval.

Some family members hated every change.

Good.

The Moretti name became slightly less efficient.

I slept better.

Then one afternoon Sofia called.

Not about Emma.

About me.

“She wants to know if you’re coming to her birthday.”

I stopped.

“Does she?”

“Yes.”

“What did you say?”

“That I’d ask.”

“Do you want me there?”

Sofia hesitated.

“I think she does.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

Silence.

Then:

“I’m okay with it.”

The answer mattered.

I attended.

Small apartment.

Paper decorations.

Seven children.

One screaming toddler.

No armed guards inside.

Emma turned five wearing a purple dress and a plastic crown.

The second she saw me, she pointed.

“You came.”

“I was summoned.”

She ran over.

Then stopped before hugging me.

“Can I?”

The question nearly broke something in me.

Children learn boundaries when adults model them.

I opened my arms.

“Yes.”

She hugged me.

Three seconds.

Then immediately abandoned me for cake.

Correct priorities.

Sofia stood beside me.

“You look disappointed.”

“I expected at least five seconds.”

“She’s busy.”

“I see that.”

We talked.

Not about romance.

Not about destiny.

Not about the absurd story people would probably invent if they saw the mafia boss standing in a small apartment holding a gift bag covered in cartoon rabbits.

We talked about Emma’s school.

Sofia’s new job.

Therapy.

My medical follow-ups.

Normal things.

At one point Sofia asked:

“Do you still think about it?”

“The poisoning?”

“Yes.”

“Every time I drink coffee.”

“That sounds exhausting.”

“It is.”

She looked toward Emma.

“She still checks my backpack before we leave.”

“For the injector?”

“Yes.”

“Does that bother you?”

“No.”

Sofia thought.

“It makes me sad.”

I understood.

Preparedness is useful.

But it is painful when fear teaches it.

Then Emma approached carrying a slice of cake.

Chocolate.

She held it toward me.

“You can eat this.”

I looked at Sofia.

“No nuts.”

Emma nodded.

“I checked.”

Of course she did.

I took the plate.

“Thank you.”

She stared until I swallowed the first bite.

Only then did she smile.

Trust, apparently, had become a supervised activity.