Chapter 13: Her Picture Stayed on His Desk

The morning sun had barely climbed past the eastern trees, casting long, golden fingers across the marble floors of the Valtasari estate. But Adriano had been awake for hours.

He sat behind his mahogany desk, sleeves rolled, collar open, tie abandoned somewhere between the study and his bedroom. Two files lay open before him, along with a half-empty glass of black coffee, now cold. But he hadn’t touched either document in nearly thirty minutes.

His eyes kept drifting.

To the drawing.

It sat just inches from his hand — crayon and pencil on creased white paper. A house. A big one, unmistakably this one. A little girl with curls holding hands with two tall figures. The woman had long hair. The man — dark scribbled eyes and a tiny smile.

My family, she had written in shaky block letters at the top.

He’d read it four times. Then ten. Then again.

His fingers hovered near it, tracing the air just above the edge of the page as if touching it might undo the spell. He hated things out of place. But this — this one piece of chaos on his otherwise perfect desk — stayed.

Because something about it made everything else seem irrelevant.

He should have been reviewing the logistics report. Or the shipment list. Or following up on the men he’d sent to track down who left that damn window open the night Lucia disappeared.

But he couldn’t stop staring at the drawing.

Not because it was childish.

But because it was the most honest thing anyone had ever given him.

---

A soft knock. Then the door creaked open without waiting for his response.

Zara stepped in, silent as always — clipboard in hand, dressed immaculately in black, her hair pinned back with precision. She didn’t speak at first. She never did unless necessary. But something in the air made her pause.

Her eyes flicked to the desk. To the child’s drawing.

She blinked once.

Adriano didn’t move.

His gaze remained on the page, as if he hadn’t even registered her presence.

She crossed the room quietly, her heels making the faintest sound against the polished floor. She didn’t approach the desk, didn’t dare interrupt the fragile thread holding the moment together. Instead, she stood near the window, watching him.

“I’ve brought the reports from Marseille,” she said finally, her voice measured, neutral. “Your approval is required before —”

“I’ll look at them later.”

That stopped her. Zara rarely showed emotion, but a flicker of something passed behind her eyes — surprise, maybe.

She followed the line of his gaze again and understood.

The paper on the desk wasn’t business. Wasn’t a coded message or a set of blueprints.

It was a child’s world. Drawn in crooked lines and bright colors.

Zara’s voice lowered. “She made that for you?”

Adriano didn’t answer. But the silence said more than any confirmation.

Zara took one step closer, then hesitated. “It’s… nice.”

He finally turned his head slightly, enough for her to see the edge of his expression. Cold. Guarded.

“If anyone touches it,” he said flatly, “I’ll kill them.”

The words weren’t dramatic. They were fact. Steel wrapped in velvet.

Zara didn’t flinch. She only nodded, slowly. Then, after a long pause:

“You’ve changed.”

Adriano’s jaw flexed. But he said nothing.

The silence hung thick between them. Not awkward — just heavy. Like the space between a man and something he never thought he’d want.

Something he never thought he’d be afraid to lose.

Zara, wisely, didn’t press him. She placed the folder on the far corner of the desk — nowhere near the drawing — and turned toward the door.

Before she left, she looked back once.

“You should tell her,” she said softly.

He didn’t ask who she meant.

And he didn’t respond.

Because he didn’t know how.

---

The corridor outside Adriano’s office was quiet, the kind of silence Siena had come to fear in this house — too deliberate, too heavy, too full of things unsaid.

She hadn’t meant to walk this way.

But after breakfast, after Lucia had scampered off with Elena to feed the swans near the pond, Siena had found herself wandering. Not aimlessly. Not quite. Her feet just… took her. And now, she stood outside the thick oak door of his office. Listening.

Nothing.

No voices. No orders. No anger.

Just silence.

She placed her hand lightly against the frame, not knocking, not pushing — just anchoring herself. Inside, she imagined him sitting at that massive desk, surrounded by ledgers and blueprints and whatever bloody plans a mafia king occupied his day with. But there was no sound of rustling papers. No deep baritone issuing commands through the phone.

And then — faintly — she heard a chair creak.

She leaned in.

A breath. Not hers. A quiet sigh, almost… weary.

That was it.

She didn’t know what she expected. But it wasn’t this — not this stillness. Not this eerie, human pause.

Her fingers curled lightly against the wood. For a brief second, she considered walking in. Saying something. Anything. But what? That she’d noticed? That he was quiet instead of terrifying?

Instead, she stayed in place. Thinking.

Thinking about the night before — when he read to Lucia with a gentleness she hadn’t known he was capable of. Thinking about how carefully he had tucked her in. The way his eyes had softened at the sight of her daughter’s sleepy smile. His daughter.

Siena hadn’t forgotten what he was.

Hadn’t forgiven.

But in that moment, standing outside his door, she let herself wonder.

What if there was more?

What if the monster she’d feared for so long — the one she had painted in shadows and blood and betrayal — was just a man? A dangerous, ruthless, broken man… but still a man. One who could sit in silence for ten minutes, staring at a crayon drawing of a crooked family and forget the wars he had waged.

Maybe he was never the monster I feared, she thought.

Or maybe… monsters can love, too.

The thought rattled her.

She pushed off the door lightly and walked away.

Because she couldn’t afford to believe it.

And yet — she already was.

---

Back inside the office, Adriano hadn’t moved.

His elbows rested on the desk, hands clasped under his chin, but his eyes remained locked on the drawing. Not the stacks of documents awaiting signatures, not the messages blinking on his encrypted laptop. Just the uneven crayon lines of a little girl who had unknowingly dismantled every fortress he’d ever built around himself.

He didn’t hear Siena outside the door.

Didn’t see her hesitation.

Didn’t know how close she’d been.

But maybe… he would’ve cared if he had.

With a slow breath, he reached into the top drawer of his desk.

Pulled out the framed photo of his father — the man he’d vowed never to become — and turned it face-down.

Then, carefully, he slid Lucia’s picture into its place.

Right in the center of the desk.

His voice was a whisper, rough and barely audible.

“You’re not taking her from me again, Siena.

Not now.

Not ever.”

And for the first time in years, the king of shadows sat in silence — with a crayon sun shining down on him.

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