Chương 2
“You eat with me,” Stallone said.
Mia held onto the container with both hands.
For the first time that day, she stopped crying.
Mia held onto the container with both hands.
The drive away from the mansion was quieter than Stallone expected.
She sat beside him in the back of the black SUV, the food container resting carefully on her lap as if someone might take it away again.
Every few minutes, she looked down to make sure it was still there.
Stallone noticed but did not mention it.
Some wounds were too new for questions.
The city moved outside the windows.
People walked dogs, carried grocery bags, argued on sidewalks, and rushed through ordinary afternoons without knowing that a three-year-old girl had just lost the last bit of safety she thought she had.
Stallone had spent decades understanding threats that arrived with weapons and warnings.
He was less prepared for the quiet damage caused by people who were supposed to love someone.
His phone vibrated in his coat pocket before they reached the main road.
He ignored it.
A second call came.
Then a third.
The man sitting beside him glanced at the screen.
“Your attorney.”
Stallone looked at Mia.
She was carefully peeling the corner of her napkin away from the container.
“Not today.”
The phone stopped ringing.
For a few seconds, there was only the sound of the engine.
Then Mia spoke.
“Is Daddy mad at me?”
Stallone looked out the window.
He had faced men who threatened his life without blinking.
A child asking whether she was the problem felt far more dangerous.
“He is responsible for his own choices.”
“But he looked mad.”
“He was.”
Mia pressed her fingers against the container.
“People get mad when I cry.”
Stallone turned toward her.
“Who told you that?”
She shrugged.
The movement was small.
Almost practiced.
“Nobody.”
Children who were loved usually gave answers quickly.
Children who were afraid learned to hide information.
The SUV turned toward Stallone’s house, a place Mia had visited many times but never lived in.
It sat on a quiet piece of land outside the city, protected by gates and cameras that had once been installed because of enemies.
Now Stallone wondered why he had spent so much money protecting walls while failing to notice what was happening inside his own family.
The housekeeper, Rosa, opened the front door before they reached it.
She had worked for Stallone for fifteen years and knew his moods better than most people.
One look at Mia’s swollen eyes told her enough.
“Oh, sweetheart.”
Mia looked at Rosa but did not move.
Rosa lowered herself slowly.
“You hungry?”
Mia looked at Stallone before answering.
That tiny movement bothered him more than anything Elena had done.
She was asking permission to trust someone.
“Yes,” Mia whispered.
Rosa smiled gently.
“Then we’ll fix that.”
The kitchen became the first normal room Mia had entered all day.
There was no expensive furniture.
No silent arguments hiding behind polite words.
Just the smell of soup, fresh bread, and coffee left too long in a mug near the sink.
Rosa placed a plate in front of Mia.
Mia stared at it.
“You can eat,” Rosa said.
The child did not touch the food immediately.
She waited.
Stallone sat across from her.
“Eat, Mia.”
Only then did she pick up the spoon.
The simple act made the room feel heavier.
Stallone had spent years building a reputation around control.
People followed his instructions.
People feared disappointing him.
But a child who needed permission to take a bite of food was proof that control had limits.
After dinner, Mia fell asleep on the couch while watching an old animated movie.
The television played quietly.
Rosa folded a blanket over her.
Stallone stood nearby, watching the child sleep.
“She looks exhausted,” Rosa said.
“She is.”
Rosa studied him.
“You are blaming yourself.”
Stallone did not answer.
That was answer enough.
“You cannot fix every person in your family.”
“No.”
He looked at Mia.
“But I should have seen this one.”
Rosa sat down in the chair across from him.
“Anthony, you saw what people showed you.”
“That is not enough.”
“It rarely is.”
He hated how reasonable she sounded.
Reasonable words were easier to accept from enemies than from people who cared.
His phone rang again.
This time he answered.
“Speak.”
The voice on the other end belonged to Marcus, his longtime attorney.
“Daniel is awake.”
Stallone looked toward the couch.
“And?”
“He is saying you attacked him without cause.”
A humorless smile crossed Stallone’s face.
“Of course he is.”
“There is more.”
Stallone waited.
“Elena called her attorney too.”
“She plans to make this legal?”
“She says she is afraid of you.”
The room became colder.
Stallone had expected anger.
He had expected denial.
He had not expected fear to become a weapon.
“What else?”
Marcus paused.
“There are accusations about your past.”
Stallone’s expression changed slightly.
Not because he was surprised.
Because he knew the past never stayed buried.
“Who started this?”
“We don’t know.”
“That means someone does.”
Marcus sighed.
“Anthony.”
“I know.”
The attorney became quiet.
“You have spent years telling people that reputation does not matter.”
“It doesn’t.”
“But consequences do.”
Stallone looked at Mia sleeping on the couch.
For the first time in years, he did not care what strangers thought of him.
He cared what one little girl believed when she grew old enough to understand what happened.
“Find out everything,” he said.
“About Elena?”
“About the house.”
Marcus hesitated.
“What does that mean?”
“It means I want every financial record, every complaint, every message, every person who has been inside that home.”
“That could take time.”
“Then start now.”
After the call ended, Stallone walked to the kitchen window.
Outside, the security lights came on one by one.
The property was calm.
Almost too calm.
He knew that feeling.
May you like
Peace before conflict was often just another form of waiting.
The next morning, Mia woke up before everyone else.
