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The crystal glass had not stopped trembling when Sophia Moretti pointed her finger at the child and screamed that she did not belong. The little girl in the plain blue dress said nothing. She did not cry. She did not step back. She only waited — until the room went quiet enough to hear the mafia boss's chair scrape the marble. Then she raised one small hand and pointed. Not at Sophia. Not at the guards. At something behind her. Don Marco Duca saw Sophia's face change, and in ten years of blood he had never once seen her afraid. She was afraid now. And the child still had not spoken a word.