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He looked at me, eyes stripped of all pretense—raw, pleading sincerity.

I turned toward Leon, running joyfully across the grass. In those Venice years, without money, most of his childhood had passed in cramped pattern rooms and canal steps. He'd never truly run freely across open lawns chasing deer.

And I wanted to see for myself—was this man who claimed he'd spend a lifetime atoning truly reformed, or just wearing a hypocrite's mask?

"We leave tomorrow morning. Back to Manhattan Sunday night." I withdrew my gaze, voice cold.

Marcelo's whole body shook, gray-green pupils exploding with joy. "Yes! Whatever you say!"

The next day, amid Leon's excited chatter, we arrived at the Long Island estate.

Tall wrought-iron gates swung inward, wheels crunching over manicured gravel. Cedar forests and golden maples lined both sides. The car finally stopped before a Tuscan-style stone villa.

The door barely opened before Leon slid from his car seat like a freed bird. Seeing the endless green lawn and the shimmering Atlantic coastline beyond, he clapped his hands. "Mamma! Look! A whole forest!"

Marcelo stepped from the front seat, shrugging off his coat, down to a deep blue lightweight sweater. He carried a black-and-white children's soccer ball, striding toward the lawn's center. "Leon! Let's see if you can kick this into that little goal!"

"Coming!!" The kid charged forward on stubby legs.

I carried my laptop and fabric swatches up to the second-floor terrace.

Early autumn sea breeze carried salt through my hair. Looking down from above, the scene was transfixing—

This man who controlled billions in underground Manhattan assets, who could make or break empires, now lay sprawled on the lawn, deliberately letting three-year-old Leon "tackle" him with those tiny legs, laughing as the child climbed on his back like a horse.

He rolled clumsily, played hide-and-seek, and when Leon threw leaves over his head, he laughed without dignity—just like any ordinary father.

I rubbed my throbbing temples. My heart tangled.

Sharp heels clicked up the stairway.

"Ruby, you actually agreed to bring the little guy here."

Isabella appeared in a cream cashmere pantsuit, carrying espresso, clicking across the terrace in pointed heels. She leaned on the railing, following my gaze down, expression complicated.

After initial shock and heartache, she'd completely accepted this surprise nephew, sending three huge boxes of premium organic snacks and custom children's clothes to our hotel over the past two days.

"I just wanted him to get some sun on grass." I sipped water, voice flat.

"Right, keep telling yourself that." Isabella rolled her eyes, gaze landing on Marcelo rolling in the dirt. She laughed. "But honestly, I've lived twenty-seven years and never seen my esteemed father bend over once. Today he's acting like an oversized golden retriever letting Leon trample him in mud. If I hadn't seen it myself, I'd think some enemy drugged him."

I said nothing.

She set down her coffee, turning to me with seriousness replacing her usual edge. "But I have to admit, Ruby—he's serious about Leon. These past few days he's cut three DeLuca smuggling lines in family meetings, brutal as hell, then turns around demanding I tell him what calcium supplements three-year-olds need. You're driving him insane, but he's genuinely trying to learn how to be human."

"Some wounds don't heal easily, Isa." My voice was soft.

Isabella sighed, patting my shoulder. "I know. Don't go easy on him. Let him suffer—it's what he owes you both."

She clicked down the stairs, shouting across the lawn. "Hey! Little gentleman! Look who brought you the Milan limited edition Lego T-Rex!"

"Isa!!"

Leon immediately abandoned Marcelo, charging into Isabella's arms on stubby legs. She scooped him up, spinning him around despite muddy shoes, making him giggle.

Marcelo sat up in the grass, brushing off debris, looking up at me on the terrace with a helpless, indulgent smile.

Night fell. The Atlantic turned deep ink-blue.