Make my daughter speak again, and I’ll give you everything,” the billionaire Mafia Boss begged. But when my four-year-old pointed at the swan music box and whispered, “He doesn’t want her to open it,” the man Vincent trusted most suddenly went pale.

The private therapy room in the east wing of the Moretti estate was bathed in warm, cinematic sunlight streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows. Rich walnut walls, soft cream rugs, and polished marble created an air of absolute luxury, yet the atmosphere was heavy with unspoken dread. At the center of the room stood Vincent Moretti. Tall, muscular, and ruggedly handsome, Vincent possessed an intensely commanding presence that made the air in the room feel thin. His styled dark hair and light stubble framed sharp features marked by a cold, dangerous intensity. He wore a fitted black dress shirt with the top buttons open, tailored black trousers, a heavy gold luxury watch, and polished leather shoes. Intricate dark tattoos crept up his neck, a subtle reminder of the ruthless empire he ruled.

Before him stood three top medical specialists, their faces pale as Vincent tossed a heavy black leather suitcase onto the glass coffee table. With a sharp snap of his wrist, he popped the latches open, revealing stacks of crisp hundred-dollar bills packed tightly inside.

Vincent leaned forward, resting his large hands on the table, his icy gaze locking onto the doctors.

"Make my daughter speak again, and I’ll give you everything," Vincent said, his voice a low, desperate growl that carried terrifying weight.

In the corner of the room, sitting quietly on a plush armchair, was seven-year-old Isabella Moretti. Fragile, quiet, and deeply withdrawn since the mysterious passing of her mother six months ago, Isabella hadn't uttered a single word. She wore an elegant pale-blue dress, her small hands tightly clutching a beautiful white swan music box against her chest. Her skin was fair and rosy, her bright eyes staring blankly at the floor.

The door softly opened, and the maid entered the room carrying a tray of fresh water glasses. Beautiful, gentle, and quiet, she was dressed in a pristine black-and-white maid uniform with her blonde hair tied neatly back. She was visibly cautious, moving with delicate precision to avoid drawing attention. Beside her trotted her four-year-old daughter, Ellie. Tiny, innocent, and unusually perceptive, Ellie wore a bright red dress, worn red shoes, and carried a scruffy gray stuffed rabbit under her arm.

Ellie immediately stopped in her tracks and stared closely at Isabella.

One of the therapists stepped toward Isabella, extending a gentle hand toward the white swan music box. "May I, Isabella?" the doctor asked softly. Receiving no reaction, the doctor gently turned the key on the bottom of the music box.

A delicate, high-pitched mechanical melody began to chime through the silent room.

Isabella instantly stiffened. Her rosy cheeks drained of color, and she pulled her shoulders tight, lowering her head as if hiding from the sound.