Our son was born early.
Not dangerously.
Three weeks.
Healthy.
Angry.
Loud.
Elena named him Leo.
I asked why.
She smiled.
“Because you already have enough names in your family.”
Fair.
The first time I held him, every strategic thought disappeared.
Good.
No heir.
No continuation.
No future boss.
Just a seven-pound child furious about temperature.
One capo called him:
“Little Caradonna.”
I corrected him.
“Leo.”
He laughed.
I didn’t.
No titles.
Not yet.
Maybe never.
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