Emilio POV
If someone had told me a year ago that my father — the Lorenzo La Rosa — would be standing in an airport, nervous, I would've laughed. But there he was. The Don of Italy's most feared family, the man who'd stared down rivals without blinking, was tapping his fingers restlessly against his cufflinks.
Every few seconds, he'd check his watch, exhale, and glance toward the arrivals gate as though sheer willpower could make the plane land faster. We stood in the private arrivals terminal of Milan Malpensa Airport, away from the chaos of the main concourse. A few guards lingered discreetly in the background, well-dressed and armed, eyes scanning every corner. Father didn't allow unnecessary risk — even today. Especially today.
The flight from New York had landed twenty minutes ago.
"She's late," he muttered, voice clipped, though I could tell it wasn't irritation — it was anxiety. "Customs," I reminded him quietly.
"And the paperwork. You know how it is for minors." He grunted, saying nothing. His jaw clenched tighter.
I'd seen my father face assassination attempts, betrayals, ambushes — but this? This waiting? It made him uneasy in a way bullets never could. When the glass doors finally slid open, two women stepped out. The first — in her mid-thirties, smartly dressed, carrying a file and looking exhausted — The second... The second was Alessandra. She was small for her age.
She is seventeen — Her shoulders tense beneath a worn hoodie. Her dark hair fell over her face, hiding most of her expression. A soft small scar cut faintly across her temple, nearly hidden. She moved with a kind of wary grace — like someone used to staying invisible. Her eyes though — mix of bluish-green.
Jane spotted us and smiled politely, though her expression carried professional caution.
"Mr. La Rosa?" she asked.
Father stepped forward. "Yes."
"I'm Jane Harper, from the New York Department of Child Welfare. Thank you for coming." She turned slightly to the girl beside her.
"This is Alessandra Knight." At the sound of her name, Alessandra lifted her head just enough to look at us. For a heartbeat, she froze — eyes flicking between my father and me — and I swear, I saw something shift in her gaze. Recognition. Father's lips parted slightly. He didn't speak, didn't move. For the first time in my life, I saw him at a loss for words.
"She doesn't speak," Jane said softly, misunderstanding his silence.
"We believe she's mute. We found out shortly after the accident." I saw my father's expression flicker — confusion, pain, then fierce protectiveness.
"She's mute?" he repeated slowly, the word foreign on his tongue.
Jane nodded. "Yes. She communicates by writing, or sometimes gestures. She hasn't spoken since we found her. The doctors said it could be trauma-induced."
My father's eyes softened almost imperceptibly as he looked at Alessandra again.
"She's been through enough," he said quietly. "We'll take care of her now."
Jane gave a polite nod, visibly relieved by his tone. "That's good to hear. I'll need to accompany you to your residence to ensure it's suitable for her guardianship. Just a formality."
"Of course," Father replied evenly. "You're welcome to."
For a moment, no one moved. Then, as if drawn by some invisible thread, Father took a slow step toward Alessandra. She slightly flinched, barely visible you would have missed it if you were not paying attention to her — her hands clenched around the strap of her bag, a small act of self-defense.
He stopped a foot away, lowering his voice. "Principessa," he said softly, the old Italian endearment breaking faintly in his throat.
"I'm your father." Her breath hitched, but she didn't respond. Just stared at him — assessing, searching, trying to read truth in his face. When he hesitantly lifted a hand, she didn't back away. Instead, she tilted her head — just slightly — as though testing if he was real. He brushed a strand of hair from her face with the gentleness of a man terrified to break something already cracked.
For a moment, she closed her eyes. Then she nodded — once — almost imperceptibly. It was enough.
"Let's go home," he murmured.
She followed quietly as we walked toward the exit, Jane and the guards trailing behind. At the car, Father opened the door for Alessandra himself — something he'd never done for anyone. She hesitated, glanced at him, then climbed in, clutching her notebook and pen close to her chest like armor. Jane slid into the passenger seat beside me. Father sat beside Alessandra in the back, his posture rigid, but his gaze never left her.
She didn't look at him directly, but once, I caught her reflection in the window — and she was watching him, silently. I started the car moving through the streets of Milan, the city lights casting long shadows across her face.
For a long time, no one spoke. But somehow, the silence didn't feel empty. It felt like the beginning of something — fragile, hesitant, but real. I was driving silently as I watched my father glance at my baby sorella like she was something sacred.