A Mafia Boss Received a Christmas Gift From His Maid’s 4-Year-Old Daughter… Then He Discovered Why She Told Him, “Please Don’t Be Sad Anymore.”

Until then, I had thought like a crime boss. I had searched for names, addresses, bank records, and the men who could be persuaded to talk. I had assembled a list of enemies and started crossing them off.

After the message appeared, I began thinking like a father.

I moved Maisie and Nora into the innermost wing of the estate, a section of the house accessible through only two guarded corridors. No visitors were permitted. Every window was checked twice, and Caleb personally selected the men assigned to their protection.

Maisie thought it was a game.

She spent the morning hiding behind curtains and whispering passwords to guards who pretended not to hear her.

At lunchtime, she approached me with a plate containing half a sandwich.

"You forgot to eat."

I looked up from a stack of reports.

"I have work."

"Mommy says people who don't eat get grumpy."

"Your mother has a lot of opinions."

Maisie giggled.

I took the sandwich.

She climbed onto the chair opposite me and watched as I ate.

"Can I ask something?"

"Anything."

"Did my other mommy like Christmas?"

The sandwich suddenly became difficult to swallow.

I set it down.

"Yes. She loved it."

"Did she like angels?"

I stared at her.

"How do you know about angels?"

Maisie reached into her pocket and produced the wooden Christmas angel from the box.

"I found another one in Mommy's bag. She says it belonged to my first mommy."

Nora, who had been standing by the window, slowly turned around.

"Maisie, sweetheart, I told you not to touch that."

"But I wanted to show him."

She placed the angel beside my hand.

Its wings were chipped. A blue ribbon circled its neck.

I recognized the tiny mark on its base. Elena had scratched her initials there with a kitchen knife after losing the original tag.

I ran my thumb over the carving.

For the first time in four years, grief came without anger attached to it.

"Can you sing me a song?" Maisie asked.

"What song?"

"The moon song."

Nora's face changed.

"Maisie, no."

The child frowned.

"Why not?"

"Because it's time for your nap."

"But Daddy hasn't heard it."

The room fell silent.

I looked at Nora.

"What moon song?"

She hesitated.

Then Maisie began singing softly.

"Little star, don't close your eyes. The moon is keeping all your skies. If the dark should hide your way, I'll come and find you, come what may."

I stopped breathing.

Elena had invented those words during the last month of her pregnancy. She sang them to the baby every night, insisting that their daughter would recognize her voice even before she recognized the world.

I had heard the song through our bedroom door.

Sometimes I had joined in, badly enough to make Elena laugh.

When she died, I couldn't bear to hear it again.

Yet Maisie knew every word.

"Who taught you that?" I whispered.

She shrugged.

"I don't remember. Mommy sings it when I'm scared."

Nora covered her mouth.

"I didn't know it was Elena's song. I thought it was something I made up."

I pulled my chair closer to Maisie.

"Can you sing it again?"

She nodded.

This time, she climbed into my lap.

Her small head rested against my chest as she sang, and for a few seconds, the entire world became quiet.

I imagined Elena standing in the doorway, smiling at us.

Then Maisie tilted her face upward.

"Did my first mommy love me?"

I closed my eyes.

"More than anything."

"Then why did she leave?"

I held her closer.

"She didn't want to leave you."

It was the only truth I could give her.

That afternoon, Caleb brought the results of a preliminary DNA comparison from a laboratory that had examined a sample I had provided. The test was not enough for a courtroom, but the conclusion was clear.

There was a greater than ninety-nine percent probability that Maisie was my biological daughter.

I stared at the report.

The child I had mourned was sitting in the next room drawing Christmas trees.

Caleb waited.

"What do you want to do?"

I folded the paper.

"Find every person who helped Dante steal four years from us."

He nodded.

"And when we find your brother?"

I looked at Maisie's drawing on the desk.

She had drawn three figures beneath a crooked Christmas tree.

One tall man.