“Can you be my daughter for one day?” Adrian Moretti asked the three-year-old standing between the wheels of his wheelchair. The most feared crime boss in New York had survived bullets, betrayal, and the explosion that killed his wife and daughter, but when little Lily Carter climbed into his lap and whispered, “I don’t want to be your daughter for only one day,” he broke down in tears, unaware that the man slowly killing him was already inside his own house.

Two days after Marcus’s execution, Viktor placed a thick, dusty manila folder on my desk.

"This is everything we could recover from the late accountant's personal archives, boss," Viktor said cautiously, keeping his gaze fixed on the floor. "His name was Thomas Carter. He discovered that Marcus was skimming millions from the syndicate's construction projects to fund private off-the-books operations. When Carter threatened to go to you, Marcus eliminated him."

I opened the folder. Inside were financial spreadsheets, bank statements, and a photograph of Thomas Carter standing proudly beside his wife and a newborn baby girl.

The same little girl who had wandered into my courtyard three days ago. Lily.

Thomas Carter had been murdered on Marcus’s orders, branded a thief to cover up the embezzlement, leaving his widow and infant daughter to struggle in poverty on the edge of the city. And all the while, Marcus had stood beside me every single day, smiling, managing my accounts, acting like a loyal brother.

The realization burned through me with sickening clarity. My blindness—my obsession with my own power and my brief attempts at domestic normalcy—had allowed a cancer to grow unchecked inside my house, destroying not only my family, but destroying an innocent man's family as well.

"Where are Sarah and Lily living now?" I asked, closing the folder.

Viktor blinked, surprised by the question. "A small, rundown tenement apartment on Tenth Avenue, Mr. Moretti. Rent-controlled, barely standing. Why do you ask?"

"Get the car ready," I said, gripping the wheels of my chair. "We're going for a visit."

The drive down to Tenth Avenue took us from the gothic wealth of Upper Manhattan into the gray, exhausted underbelly of the city, where crumbling brick tenements leaned against one another like tired old men.

When our black town car pulled up to the curb, a few pedestrians scattered into doorways, recognizing the unmistakable silhouette of a Moretti vehicle.

Viktor rushed to open the rear door, pulling out my collapsible wheelchair and helping me transition into it with practiced efficiency.

"Should I come up with you, boss?" Viktor asked, scanning the narrow, graffiti-scarred stairwell.

"No," I replied, adjusting my dark coat. "Wait here."

I wheeled myself down the dim, foul-smelling hallway of the tenement building until I found apartment 4B. A faded wooden door with peeling paint. I raised my knuckles and rapped softly against the wood.

A moment later, the lock clicked, and the door swung open.

Sarah Carter stood in the doorway, wearing a stained apron, her hair pulled back in a loose bun. When she saw me sitting in a wheelchair on her landing—the most feared crime boss in New York parked outside her shabby apartment—her face drained of all color.

"Mr... Mr. Moretti," she stammered, grabbing the edge of the door frame for support. "I... I swear I didn't mean to trespass the other day—"

Before she could finish, a small voice echoed from the dim kitchen behind her.

"Mama? Who’s at the door?"

Little Lily poked her head around the corner, holding a worn-out teddy bear with one missing button. When she saw me, her wide brown eyes lit up with instant recognition.

"It's the man with the broken legs!" Lily announced happily, toddling toward the door.

Sarah’s breath hitched. She dropped to her knees, pulling Lily back behind her skirt. "Please, sir, don't hurt us. Take whatever we have, we don't want any trouble—"