A barefoot three-year-old girl knocked on the most feared mafia boss’s bedroom door at midnight and whispered, “I need your help. My mommy won’t wake up.” I thought my maid had suffered a medical emergency somewhere inside my estate, until what I found beside her revealed that this little girl hadn’t come to my door by chance, and the reason reached years into a past I thought I had buried.

I stared at the old photograph in absolute silence, feeling the heavy weight of the past crashing down upon me. The man standing next to my housekeeper in the picture was supposed to be a permanent ghost. My brother Dante had died in a violent, fiery car explosion exactly twelve years ago. I had personally identified his burned belongings and scattered his ashes into the freezing waters of the Atlantic Ocean. Yet, he looked no older in this crisp photograph than he did the day he was supposedly taken from this world. Elena groaned weakly on the cold marble floor, her breathing becoming dangerously shallow and erratic. I immediately pulled out my encrypted cell phone, my hands shaking with an adrenaline I had not felt in years. I dialed the private emergency number for Dr. Thorne, the syndicate’s chief medical officer and my most trusted physician. "Get to my private quarters immediately with a full resuscitation kit," I ordered fiercely into the receiver. I scooped Elena into my arms, surprised by how light and fragile she felt, and laid her gently on her mattress. Lily stood in the doorway, clutching her worn stuffed rabbit with tiny, trembling fingers. "Is my mommy going to wake up?" the three-year-old whispered tearfully, her wide eyes locked onto my face. I forced a reassuring smile that I absolutely did not feel, masking the terrifying reality of our situation. "I have a very smart doctor coming to fix her right now, sweetheart," I promised softly. Dr. Thorne arrived less than five minutes later, rushing into the room with his heavy black medical bag. He took one quick look at Elena's pale face and immediately reached into his bag for a thick silver syringe. "It looks like a severe cardiac event, Boss, but I can stabilize her," Dr. Thorne stated with professional calm. He uncapped the long needle, preparing to inject the clear, unknown liquid directly into her neck. Suddenly, Lily dropped her beloved stuffed rabbit and let out a piercing, terrified scream. "No!" the little girl cried out, tears streaming rapidly down her flushed cheeks. "That is the bad juice!" the toddler yelled, stomping her bare foot on the floor. I froze completely, looking from the terrified child to the glinting syringe held firmly in the doctor's hand. "What did you just say, Lily?" I asked, my blood turning to absolute ice in my veins. Lily pointed a tiny, trembling finger directly at the chest of my trusted physician. "He gave her that bad juice in the kitchen right before she fell down on the floor." Dr. Thorne’s professional, calming demeanor vanished instantly, replaced by a cold and calculated glare. He dropped the syringe onto the carpet and rapidly pulled a silenced pistol from his medical bag.