My Three-Year-Old Daughter Mocked the Mafia Boss to His Face—Then the Mafia Boss Made One Unexpected Request.

By the next morning, the storm outside had cleared, leaving behind a crisp, sunlit sky over the Castalano estate. Inside the medical wing, Mia was sitting up in bed, happily eating a bowl of warm oatmeal while watching cartoons on a small television mounted on the wall. Her fever was entirely gone, her rosy cheeks back to their healthy, adorable color.

Claire sat beside her, looking exhausted but immensely grateful. When the heavy door opened, Vincent walked in, wearing a fresh tailored navy suit.

"How is she?" Vincent asked, stepping over to the bedside.

"She's feeling much better, Mr. Castalano," Claire said gently. She stood up, bowing her head. "I... I don't know how to thank you for bringing your doctors. I could never have afforded this kind of care."

"You will not thank me for doing what is required for my own family," Vincent said flatly.

Claire looked up, her wide eyes meeting his. "Family?"

Vincent turned his gaze to Mia, who held up a spoonful of oatmeal toward him. "Eat, dragon man."

Vincent let out a soft, low chuckle—a sound so rare that even the security guard standing outside the open door peeked inside in disbelief. He gently pushed her hand back toward her. "Eat your own food, little bug."

He looked back at Claire, his tone returning to business. "From this day forward, you and Mia will no longer reside in the staff quarters. You will move into the east wing guest suite. You will no longer wear a maid uniform."

Claire panicked slightly. "Mr. Castalano, I am a worker here—"

"You are my late cousin's daughter," Vincent corrected, his deep voice leaving no room for argument. "Which makes you my niece, and this child my grand-niece. No Castalano blood wears an apron in my house."

An hour later, the estate's formal dining hall was prepared for morning breakfast. The long mahogany table was set with sterling silver, crystal juice glasses, and platters of fresh fruit, eggs, and pancakes.

Seated at the head of the table was Vincent Castalano. Sitting directly to his right, elevated on two plush leather cushions, was three-year-old Mia, happily drowning a pancake in maple syrup. Claire sat beside her, wearing a simple, elegant dark blue dress provided by the estate's personal stylist, looking completely bewildered by her sudden elevation in status.

Standing along the walls were four senior syndicate lieutenants—hardened men who managed weapons distribution, gambling rings, and shipping docks across the eastern seaboard. They had been summoned for an urgent strategy meeting, but now stood frozen in utter bewilderment, watching their terrifying Don carefully wipe a smear of syrup off a toddler’s chin with a cloth napkin.

Renzo walked into the dining hall, carrying his tablet. He walked straight to Vincent’s side and bent down, whispering softly into his ear.

"Boss," Renzo murmured, his tone deadly serious. "Our signals team just intercepted an encrypted satellite transmission originating from within ten miles of the estate."

Vincent’s hands paused. "What did it say?"

"Someone is offering a ten-million-dollar bounty to the Vanguard Mercenary Group," Renzo whispered, his eyes flickering briefly toward Claire and Mia. "The contract specifically requests the extraction or elimination of Elena Castalano’s surviving bloodline."