The baby wailed like the world was ending but Torre couldn’t have cared less.

But he tried. God, he tried to make the little demon stop. It's just that nothing worked. Not the bottle, not the rocking, not the damn teething ring.

She screamed louder. Her tiny face scrunched up like someone was peeling her skin off.

Torre’s jaw twitched.

“One more sound from your tiny mouth,” Torre said. “And I'm fucking tossing you out the window!”

He was really frustrated at this point.

Big, fat tears rolled down her cheeks. Her name was Alessia, she was eight months old and she was Vittoria’s daughter. Not his. Even though the entire city seemed to believe otherwise.

It was a deal, that was all. A twisted agreement between him and Vittoria to keep the child alive.

But in moments like this where the kid keeps crying, he regrets not letting the little monster die alongside her mother in that car.

His doctor, Falcone, had suggested a special formula, but Alessia had a dairy allergy. Vittoria, when she was alive, had always fussed over the feedings, complaining here and there about the formulas he bought. But Torre didn’t care, he actually never had.

She was always the one cradling the baby, singing lullabies and wiping drool from the baby's chin. Torre barely lifted a finger.

Why would he? Alessia wasn’t his.

But no one believed that. Not the family, not the street. Not that it mattered anymore. Everyone thought he’d touched Vittoria but, actually he hadn’t.

She was only his wife on paper and in name. She was a beautiful, loyal… and stupid pawn too.

She thought marriage meant something, she thought he meant something, she thought they’d have a family.

Torre scoffed at the thought.

He’d only married her because his father ordered it. Vittoria, though, she’d loved him enough to beg for a baby.

When Torre refused her, she drugged herself one night and tried to drug him too. Sadly, he slipped away before the drugs kicked in and Vittoria ended up in bed with a nobody.

Torre never cared to find out who. But nine months later, Alessia was born, and the whole world pretended she was his.

Vittoria believed it would bring them closer and make him soften, but she was wrong.

She couldn’t stop herself. Once she’d gotten a taste of someone else's cock, she kept going, kept lying, and kept cheating.

Torre still didn't care. But when he found out it was his own employee, Benedetto Rossi, that one stung.

Torre had once met Benedetto’s wife, Montana. She was sweet looking and pale. The kind of woman who looked like she didn’t belong in their dirty world.

Torre had wanted her. Badly. But out of loyalty for Benedetto and for their brotherhood, he’d held back.

That was until he found out Vittoria and Benedetto were sleeping together, and that Alessia, the baby, was actually his.

That was when Torre gave himself permission.

He told Vittoria to set Benedetto up. He told her to lure him to that exact car, at that exact place, at that exact time so he could make them atone for their sins.

She agreed. She begged for forgiveness, but she still followed orders. And then she died right beside the man she betrayed him with.

Torre took in the child because Vittoria begged him to spare the child. Vittoria had loved him more than she’d ever loved Benedetto. She had loved him enough to die for him, and she did.

She never planned to run away to Dublin with another man. That was Torre’s story that he forged and crafted well. He told her to write the letter, pack the cash, and strip for Benedetto in the car. She did.

And then his boys shot the car and killed them both. Torre Scarpa was ruthless but she’d been the one who betrayed him first, and betrayal deserved to be buried six feet deep.

Now, all Torre had left was the screaming echo of that betrayal. And the child that reminded him of it every damn second.

He stared down at Alessia, who wouldn’t stop wailing. “Maybe you need a smoke. A little marijuana causes great pleasure, little demon.”

He couldn't help himself from thinking of Montana Rossi, the widow. The broken doll Benedetto left behind.

Her face at the station still haunted him. It was hollow, fragile like she was devastated. She was carrying another Rossi brat, all alone. Still grieving yet still beautiful.

She was the kind of woman who deserved softness because she gave it freely. Even to that devil of a mother-in-law. Torre thought she would be a better parent. A better everything.

Torre remembered the gala.

The way she looked at Benedetto like he hung the damn stars. And now? Now she was drowning in debt.

Benedetto had used Scarpa’s money for that dream house. Every cent he owned came from Torre’s pockets. And now the widow inherited all of it. Perfect!

She was closer to him now through that debt, she was in a desperate spot, and that was exactly just the way Torre needed her.

And maybe… she was the right one to raise Alessia. From there, he'd have his way with her for sure.

With a smirk curling at the edge of his lips, Torre picked up his phone and dialed.

It rang Twice before it clicked.

“Hello,” he said smoothly. “Mi amore.”