Chapter 4 - The Unlikely Routine
By the end of the second week, the rigid, clockwork discipline of the Romano estate had completely unraveled, replaced by a bizarre new domestic rhythm that left the high-ranking capos and veteran bodyguards utterly bewildered.
Vincent Romano sat at the head of the long mahogany dining table, reviewing a shipment manifest from Marseille. Across from him, seated in an oversized chair with a booster seat, sat Sophia, meticulously dipping a chicken nugget into a small cup of ketchup. And lying comfortably right beside her chair, chewing lazily on an industrial-grade rubber chew toy that Vincent had personally ordered online, was Diesel.
Jeppe stood by the doorway, rubbing his eyes as if he were hallucinating. For three years, Diesel had been kept away from the main house entirely, fed through a sliding hatch by masked handlers who carried cattle prods. Now, the hundred-and-twenty-pound monster was casually napping in the dining room while a seven-year-old girl dropped pieces of carrot onto his head.
"Eat your broccoli, Sophia," Vincent said without looking up from his papers.
"Broccoli is green and tastes like sadness," Sophia replied instantly, poking a floret aside with her fork.
Vincent paused, lowering his pen. He looked across the table at her. "Who taught you that phrase?"
"Uncle Antonio says work tastes like sadness. I think broccoli tastes the same."
A dry cough escaped Vincent’s throat, which sounded suspiciously like a suppressed laugh. He quickly covered it by taking a sip of his black coffee. "Your uncle says a lot of foolish things. Eat two pieces of broccoli, or no dessert."
Sophia sighed dramatically, picked up a single floret, and popped it into her mouth with an expression of profound martyrdom. Diesel thumped his tail twice against the hardwood floor in quiet solidarity.
Just then, the heavy double doors of the dining hall swung open, and Marco Rossi, one of Vincent’s most ruthless regional lieutenants, strode into the room carrying a heavy leather briefcase. Marco stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes bulging as he took in the scene.
"Boss," Marco stammered, his hand instinctively dropping toward his sidearm. "What is... why is the beast in the house? And who the hell is—"
"Marco," Vincent interrupted, his voice dropping into a cold, dangerous register that instantly made the lieutenant snap to attention. "Lower your hand. And lower your voice. You're disturbing the table."
Marco blinked, looking from Vincent to the massive dog, which had lifted its head at the sound of the newcomer's sharp voice. Diesel’s lips curled back just a fraction, revealing a flash of white ivory.
"Boss, with all due respect," Marco said nervously, sweating under the collar of his tailored suit, "that animal nearly ripped my arm off six months ago at the northern compound. If he snaps—"
"He won't snap," Vincent said calmly, rising from his chair. He buttoned his suit jacket and walked slowly toward the head lieutenant, stepping past the dog without a single flancer. "Because Diesel has learned some manners. Haven't you, boy?"
Diesel let out a soft huff, laid his head back down, and closed his eyes, completely dismissing Marco.
Marco swallowed hard, completely dumbfounded. "I... I have the reports from the Naples dock acquisition, Boss. We intercepted the rival shipment like you asked. Three men are in custody."
"Good," Vincent said, taking the briefcase from Marco’s trembling hands. He opened the latch, glanced at the contents inside, and nodded with satisfaction. "Put the rest of the crew on high alert. Castellano is still nervous about the rival syndicates trying to muscle into our territory, and I want zero vulnerabilities."
"Understood," Marco muttered, his eyes darting anxiously toward Sophia, who was now feeding Diesel a small piece of unseasoned chicken breast. "Uh... Boss? If you don't mind me asking... who is the kid?"
Vincent turned his gaze toward Sophia, watching as she patted the dog's massive head while humming a gentle, tuneless melody. A strange warmth—foreign, heavy, and entirely unwelcome—stirred deep within his chest.
"She's a guest, Marco," Vincent said quietly, his eyes narrowing slightly as he looked back at his lieutenant. "And anyone who makes her unwelcome in this house answers to me. Is that clear?"
"Crystal clear, Boss," Marco said quickly, backing toward the door. "Crystal clear."
As the heavy doors clicked shut behind Marco, Vincent walked back to the table. Sophia looked up at him through her long eyelashes.
"Are you a bad man, Mr. Romano?" she asked softly.
Vincent froze. For the first time in his life, he didn't have an immediate answer. He had killed men, laundered fortunes, and ruled his underworld empire with an iron fist. By every definition of the word, he was a bad man.
"I do bad things to protect the people who work for me," Vincent said carefully, choosing honesty over a comforting lie. "Does that make me bad?"
Sophia tilted her head, considering his words for a long moment. Then, she reached down, patted Diesel on the head, and looked back up at Vincent with absolute clarity in her eyes.
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"No," she said softly. "It just means you're lonely. But you don't have to be anymore. You have us now."
Vincent stood frozen in the opulent dining hall, the weight of her words crashing over him like a tidal wave. For a man who had built walls of steel and fear, those simple words felt like the first real sunlight he had seen in over a decade.
