Vanya padded back to where he’d been sitting, calm as a monk.
He climbed onto the long chair again and sat, small hands braced on either side of his thighs.
His legs began to swing—slow, steady, deliberate.
Not restless. Not nervous.
Measured.
As if he wasn’t finished with me.
As if this five-year-old had decided the conversation would not end until I agreed to terms he hadn’t even spoken yet.
He watched me like a tiny judge in a tiny court, waiting for my next move.
He tilted his head, curls falling over one eye. “Do you hurt everyone around you?”
The question hit harder than it should’ve. My lungs locked. My chest went tight.
Because yes—people near me got hurt.
“No. I protect the people I care about.” I said quietly. “And I help people too.”
It was true.
I donated to orphanages.
Built one hundred homes a year in the poorest corners of Italy.
Kept more families safe than the government ever had.
But the boy didn’t blink.
“How do you make your money?” he asked, voice smooth and unguarded, the kind of unfiltered innocence that sliced deeper than any adult threat.
My hand clenched the leather armrest.
The chair creaked.
For decades, no one asked that question and lived long enough to repeat it.
But this child—this small, midnight-eyed judge—stared at me like he had the right.
I leaned forward.
The room tightened.
My voice dropped into the register that made grown men beg for their lives.
“Vanya... I’m not indulging this conversation. Go back to your mom. Now.”
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink.
“The butler said you don’t hurt kids,” he said, legs swinging like a pendulum. “So... you won’t hurt me, right?”
He tilted his head, eyes sharp. “Or... do you?”
I stood slowly, letting my shadow fall over him.
