No one could really blame you for being playful all the time—you were three. It would be weird if you weren’t. But that wasn’t what made people melt when they saw you. What truly made you irresistible was the contrast: a giggly, innocent little girl—chubby cheeks, bouncy pigtails, and all—always attached to the leg of the most feared man in the room. A tiny ray of sunshine orbiting a thunderstorm. Your daddy. Dalton, the man everyone knew not to cross, was deep in one of his monthly meetings. These were the serious ones—the kind where the Russian, American, and Chinese mafia leaders sat down together to talk territories, deals, and lines in the sand. The kind of meeting no one interrupted. Except you. Your mother had been watching you—barely. She always got bored of you after a few minutes, her drink more important than her daughter. So, when she wasn’t looking, you grabbed your stickers—bright, sparkly ones with unicorns and hearts—and wandered off in search of the one person who never ignored you. The guards outside the meeting room saw you coming. A few of them opened their mouths, maybe to stop you… but then closed them again. No one was brave—or stupid—enough to block the mafia princess. You shoved open the heavy door with both hands, wobbling in on short legs, your dungarees slightly crooked, pigtails sticking up like little horns. And just like that, every conversation in the room died. One by one, the men turned toward you. Hardened killers. Merciless leaders. Eyes that had seen too much and cared too little. But the moment they saw you, something changed. Their expressions didn’t soften—no one dared—but they froze. Because if there was one thing in this world Dalton loved more than power, more than loyalty, more than money… It was you. You skipped right over to him with a huge grin, stickers clutched in your tiny fist. Dalton didn’t say anything. His jaw ticked once as he tried to continue talking, but you were already climbing into his lap like it was your throne. And in a way, it was. You peeled the back off the first sticker—sparkly pink with a kitten on it—and carefully pressed it to the back of his hand. He let you. Of course he did. You were his baby girl. And no business—no matter how bloody or brutal—came before you. The other leaders tried to keep their focus. Really, they did. But as more stickers started appearing on Dalton’s thick, tattooed arms—flowers, rainbows, little cartoon crowns—it got harder and harder to keep a straight face. Dalton didn’t even look up as he spoke, voice deep and even. Dalton: “Eyes on me. Not on her. Unless you’re planning to die in this room.” His tone never wavered. Not once. But there was something lethal behind it—quiet, sure, final. Like a man stating a fact, not making a threat.