Chapter 8 - The Seventh Birthday
Four years slipped through our fingers like fine sand.
The city changed. Governments rose and fell, syndicates bled and splintered, but the Romano estate remained an unyielding island of green lawns, stone walls, and absolute, unbreakable peace.
Lily grew like a weed. Her crooked green horses evolved into detailed watercolors of landscapes, cats, and—most frequently—a tall, dark-haired man in a tailored suit standing beside a little girl holding a stuffed rabbit.
She called me Daddy now. The first time she said it—standing in the middle of my study while I reviewed an import manifest—she had looked up with those wide brown eyes, tested the word on her tongue just like I had tested her name four years ago, and whispered it like a sacred truth.
I had dropped my pen, knelt down, and held her so tightly she laughed.
On a bright, crisp Saturday morning in late November, the grand ballroom of the estate was transformed into a wonderland of fairy lights, white orchids, and a massive chocolate birthday cake to celebrate Lily turning seven.
The most dangerous men in the city—capos, politicians, and business partners—sat around the long mahogany tables, wearing polite, respectful smiles, sipping champagne while watching a little girl in a pink party dress blow out seven flickering candles.
Marco stood near the velvet drapes, holding a glass of sparkling cider, shaking his head with a quiet, amused grin as he watched me—the most feared crime boss in New York—carefully pin a sparkly pink tiara into my daughter’s dark curls.
“You’re getting soft, Boss,” Marco teased quietly as I walked past him to grab a fresh glass of water.
May you like
I looked across the room, where Lily was proudly showing off her new watercolor set to her mother, her laughter floating upward like music against the vaulted ceilings.
“I’m not soft, Marco,” I murmured, my hand resting comfortably in my pocket. “I’m fortified. There is a difference.”
